?^"9 

/ 


THE 

LAUGHING 

MUSE- 


ARTHUR  GUITERMAN 


HARPER  &•  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 
NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 


The  author  acknowledges  with  thanks  the 
courtesy  of  the  editors  of  Life,  The  New 
York  Times,  Woman's  Home  Companion, 
Harper's  Magazine,  The  Century,  St.  Nicholas, 
Collier's  Weekly,  The  Bookman,  Munsey's 
Magazine,  Scribner's  Magazine,  Puck,  The 
Youth's  Companion,  Smart  Set,  The  Ladies' 
Home  Journal,  The  Ladies1  World,  Good 
Housekeeping,  and  The  Sun,  in  granting 
permission  to  reprint  the  verses  contained  in 
this  book. 


THE  LAUGHING  MUSE 


Copyright,  1915,  by  Harper  &  Brothers 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 

Published  September,  1915 

M-Q 


FATE,   THE  JESTER 

The  planets  are  bells  on  his  motley, 
He  fleers  at  the  stars  in  their  state, 

He  banters  the  suns  burning  hotly — 
The  Jester  whose  nickname  is  Fate. 

The  lanterns  that  kindle  their  rays  with 
The  comets,  are  food  for  his  mirth; 

But,  oh,  how  he  laughs  as  he  plays  with 
His  mad  little  bauble,  the  Earth! 

He  looks  on  the  atomies  crowding 

The  face  of  our  pitiful  ball; 
His  form  in  the  nebula  shrouding, 

He  chuckles,  unnoted  of  all 

The  valorous  puppets  that  chatter 
Superbly  of  Little  and  Great. 

A  flip  of  his  finger  would  shatter 

The  dreams  of  these  "Masters  of  Fate" 


3969 


He  laughs  at  their  strivings  and  rages 
And  tosses  the  murmurant  sphere 

To  bowl  through  the  zodiac-stages 
That  measure  the  groove  of  a  Year. 

He  laughs  as  he  trips  up  the  maddest 
Who  scramble  for  power  and  place, 

But  laughs  with  the  bravest  and  gladdest — 
Fate's  comrades,  who  laugh  in  his  face; 

Who  laugh  at  themselves  and  their  troubles 
Whatever  the  beaker  they  quaff; 

Who,  laughing  at  Vanity's  bubbles, 
Forget  not  to  love  as  they  laugh; 

Who  laugh  in  the  teeth  of  disaster, 
Yet  hope  through  the  darkness  to  find 

A  road  past  the  stars  to  a  Master 
Of  Fate  in  the  vastness  behind. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


FATE,  THE  JESTER v 

GREAT  ADVENTURES 

THE  QUEST  OF  THE  RIBBAND 3 

STRICTLY  GERM-PROOF       n 

THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  FIRST  CAM-U-EL    ....  13 

A  PROVERBIAL  TRAGEDY        16 

THE  HAT 17 

A  TROPICAL  TRAGEDY       21 

THE  QUEST  OF  THE  CAR       23 

A  TRACT  FOR  AUTOS 31 

THE  TALE  OF  A  DAGHESTAN  RUG 34 

A  PURE  MATHEMATICIAN       40 

THE  POEM  ON  SPRING       .     .     .    0 42 

TRUE  SPRING        47 

AN  ADIRONDACK  IDYLL 48 

A  BUNGALOW       52 

DORLAN'S  HOME-WALK 55 

BASEBALL  IN  DE  PARK 59 

A  NEW  MEXICAN  BO-PEEP 62 

THE  MEXICAN  HAMMOCK       .    , 67 

A  LAY  OF  MASSACHUSETTS  BAY    ......  70 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  PILGRIMS'  THANKSGIVING  FEAST     ....  73 

THE  WISHBONE 75 

A  TRUE  BILL  AGAYNST  CHRISTMASSE     ....  77 

THE  STOCKING 79 

A  BRIDGE  SCANDAL 81 

HENRY  HUDSON'S  LOG 82 

WHITE  MAGIC 85 

A  PERSIAN  APOLOGUE       86 

TACT       88 

FAME       91 

LOGIC 92 

A  HINDU  RIDDLE 94 

THE  IRREVERENT  BRAHMIN 95 

BREAD 97 

THE  STONE'S  JOKE        98 

THE  BEST  AND  WORST  NAIL  IN  THE  ARK      .    .  100 

WHAT  THE  DEVIL  SAID  TO  NOAH       103 

MIDNIGHT  ALPHABET 105 

MAINLY  FEMININE 

THIS  Is  SHE in 

THE  LASSES  o*  LINTON 114 

FASHION       115 

THE  WIND  MAIDEN 117 

A  SKETCH    FROM    THE    LIFE 118 

A  WHOLE  DAY! 120 

ONE  FEATHER 121 

THE  COUNTRY  DANCE   123 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  ORGAN-GRINDER  LADY  AND  THE   SCISSORS- 
GRINDER  MAN 124 

A  GREEK  SONG 128 

THE  GROCERY  BOY       129 

A  SONG  FOR  SILVIUS 130 

THE  PASSIONATE  SUBURBANITE  TO  His  LOVE     .  131 

OUR  SUBURB 133 

LOVERS'  LANE 135 

TWIST-RHYME  ON  WOMEN 137 

A  VALENTINE        138 

A  BILL  FROM  CUPID 140 

THE  RAG  DOLLY'S  VALENTINE       142 

ARCHITECTURAL 144 

A  BOY  AND  A  PUP  , 145 

ON  CHERUBS 147 

CHUMS 148 

A  STRIKE  IN  FAIRYLAND 150 

HOUSE  BLESSING 152 

CLEVER  ANIMALS 

WHY  TIGERS  CAN'T  CLIMB 155 

PIGEON  ENGLISH       157 

THE  MINA-BIRD !ij9 

THE  CARDINAL-BIRD 161 

THE  SMALL  HOT  ROBIN  AND  THE  LARGE  COLD 

WORM 162 

WHY  MOSQUITOES  STING       164 

THE  BEE !66 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  FIRST  CAT 168 

THE  KITTY  AND  THE  CAT 170 

.ETIQUETTE 172 

LITTLE  LOST  PUP 174 

THE  AMBIGUOUS  DOG  .     .     „ 176 

THE  TALE  OF  TAILS 177 

WOOD-HARVEST 180 

COYOTE  AND  THE  STAR 181 

HOMEWARD  BOUND        185 

THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  BLACKBIRD 186 

THE  BAT 190 

TEA  WITH  A  DINOSAUR 191 

THE  HUMMING-BIRD 194 

THE  RABBIT  OF  WALES 195 

MACARONI 198 

THE  CUCKOO 200 

TRAMPING 202 

MERE  LITERATURE 

IMPUDENT  INTERVIEWS: 

GEORGE  BERNARD  SHAW .  205 

RUDYARD  KIPLING 209 

JACK  LONDON 213 

JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 215 

LETTERS  TO  THE  LITERATI: 

To  SIR  ARTHUR  CONAN  DOYLE       .    .    .    .  218 

To  J.  M.  BARRIE       221 

To  MAURICE  HEWLETT       224 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

RHYMED  REVIEW: 

BELLA  DONNA,  BY  ROBERT  HICHENS    .    .     .  227 

DlVINA    COMMEDIA      » 230 

THE  YOUNG  CELTIC  POETS 231 

MAVRONE 232 

THE  WRATH  OF  THE  POET 234 

THE  NEO-CELTIC  CRITICISM       237 

THE  VILLAIN  PROTESTS 239 

OPERA  IN  ENGLISH:   AIDA 241 

WHAT  THE  EDITOR  WTANTS 244 

THE  MENTORS 246 


GREAT   ADVENTURES 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  RIBBAND 

LORD  RONALD  was  lord  of  a  high  domain 
(He  dwelt  on  the  eighteenth  floor). 

His  bride  was  the  Beauteous  Lady  Jane, 
A  rose-colored  robe  she  wore. 

A  boudoir  cap  o*  the  velvet  fine 

Lay  soft  on  her  tresses'  gold. 
She  read  the  Advertisements  line  for  line 

To  know  what  the  Papers  told: 

Of  laces  at  Macy's,  of  thimbles  at  Gimbel's,  of  urns 
at  Stern  s  and  churns  at  Hearn's,  of  axes  at  Saks's, 
gold  eagels  at  Siegel's,  rubber  heels  at  O'Neill's,  fur 
mittens  like  Peary9 s  at  Mr.  McCreery's,  and  silver 
salt-shakers  at  John  Wanamakers. 

"Now  busk  thee  and  boun  thee,  Lord  Ronald!" 

she  cried; 
"Away  to  the  Bargain  Sale 

[3] 


And  fetch  me  a  Band  o'  the  Silk  oj  Pride 
O*  the  hue  o'  the  lilac  pale! 

"A  Silken  Band  oj  the  width  o'  my  hand 

And  rilled  as  the  water  clear; 
Of  yards  full  three  its  length  shall  be, 

And  its  shade — like  the  Sample,  here!" 

The  Sample  he  took  from  her  fingers  white, 

He  kissed  her  with  kisses  four, 
And  hied  him  away — oh,  the  Hardy  Knight! 

To  the  Gate  o'  the  Mammoth  Store. 

To  him  in  the  rush  oj  that  Awesome  Place 
Where  gaping  and  dumb  he  stood, 

A  Floor-Walker  ambled  with  dainty  grace 
And  questioned  him  what  he  would. 

Quoth   Ronald,   "Thou   Floor- Walker  great   and 
grand, 

A  Word  in  thy  Pearly  Ear: 
Now  where  shall  I  get  me  a  Silken  Band 

0*  the  shade  o*  the  Sample  here?" 

[41 


He  patted  himself  on  the  nut-brown  hair, 
That  Floor- Walker  bright  and  brave; 

He  pointed  his  Thumb  to  the  marble  stair 
And  said,  with  a  Gracious  Wave: 

"Third  aisle,  right;  down  one  flight;  elevator; 
escalator;  eighth  floor,  west;  trousers  pressed;  second 
turning;  wood-burning;  shipping-clerk;  fancy-work; 
straight  ahead;  cake  and  bread;  past  rest-room; 
near  guest-room;  photo-mounter;  Ribbon-counter!" 

"Gramercy!"   him  answered  Lord  Ronald  then, 

And  turned  on  his  heel  full  swift, 
And  battled  his  way  to  that  iron  pen 

Which  Englishmen  call  "The  Lift." 

While  up  through  the  glimmering  shaft  they  sped 

As  fast  as  a  Shooting  Star, 
He  spake  to  the  Youth  o'  the  Woolly  Head 

That  governed  the  Iron  Car: 

"Say  thou  o'  the  Cap  that  is  brightly  bound 
Wi'  Braid  oj  the  Golden  Fleece, 
[51 


Oh,  where  may  a  Ribband  o'  Silk  be  found 
That's  like  to  my  Sample  Piece?" 

The  Galliard  that  governed  the  speeding  Car 

From  out  of  his  dream  awoke. 
He  halted  the  Cage  wi'  a  grinding  jar, 

He  opened  his  lips  and  spoke: 

" 'Mind  the  door!  Eighth  floor! — Iron-heaters, 
carpet-beaters;  negligees,  lacquer  trays;  prince sse 
slips,  ostrich  tips;  curtain-poles,  bolster-rolls;  Brus 
sels  nets,  shaving-sets;  ticket-punches,  boxed  lunch 
es;  office  dials,  graded  vials;  -pillow-shams,  smoked 
hams;  silver  gauze,  rabbit  paws;  riding-crops,  kitchen 
mops;  opera  scores,  cedar  oars;  menu-holders,  bill- 
folders;  wax  matches,  window-catches;  music  chimes, 
pickled  limes;  paper  pencils,  pattern  stencils;  pow 
der-jars,  fine  cigars;  printing-presses,  party  dresses; 
perambulators,  over-gaiters,  nutmeg- graters,  indica 
tors;  champagne-nippers,  copper  dippers,  wire-clip 
pers,  carpet  slippers;  couches,  pouches;  broilers, 
oilers;  puzzles,  muzzles;  biggins,  piggins;  pins, 
tins;  nibs,  bibs;  chains,  canes;  balls,  shawls;  dotted 
veils,  percales,  wooden  pails,  Special  Sales:  New 
[6] 


books •,     view     books;     sets     of    Gibbons,     SILK 
RIBBONS  r 

Now  halted  Lord  Ronald  and  wavered  long, 
But  thought  on  his  Dame's  behest; 

And  forth  through  the  whirl  of  the  jostling  throng 
He  fared  on  his  knightly  Quest. 

He  sought  for  that  Ribband  of  lilac  hue 

Desired  of  his  queenly  Bride. 
Unswerving  he  held  to  his  Purpose  true, 

For  nothing  he  turned  aside, 

Though  sirens  expanded  their  Golden  Smiles 

To  dazzle  the  Daring  Man 
Where  hither  and  yon  in  the  tangled  aisles 

Were  Magical  Scrolls  which  ran: 

"Rices,  spices — lowest  prices!"  "Lamps,  guimpes 
—  trading  -  stamps!"  "Braids,  brocades  —  highest 
grades!"  "  Waists  —  assorted  —  just  imported!" 
"Fancy  collars — seven  dollars!"  "Caps  for  nurses 
— suit  all  purses!"  "Pure  confections — choice  selec 
tions!"  "  Water  -  wings,  garden  -  swings;  baby- 

2  (7} 


wagons,  crystal  flagons;  herbariums,  aquariums; 
thermometers,  barometers;  zoetropes,  microscopes, 
braided  ropes,  envelopes;  stocks,  blocks,  frocks, 
clocks;  mixing-bowls,  casseroles!" 

Right  onward  he  pressed  to  a  Counter,  dressed 

Wi'  Ribbands  of  every  shade; 
And  he  was  aware  of  a  Maiden  there 

Which  spake  to  another  Maid. 

But  still  as  she  chattered,  that  Maiden  young, 

And  settled  her  combs  aright, 
"Now  hearken,  O  Maid  o'  the  Lively  Tongue," 

Cried  Ronald,  the  Hardy  Knight! 

"For  fain  would  I  buy  wi'  the  Silver  due, 

Or  else  wi'  the  gude  red  Gold, 
A  Ribband  o'  Silk  o'  the  lilac  hue 

That's  like  to  the  Shred  I  hold." 

She  daunted  the  Knight  wi'  a  Vacant  Glare 

As  though  he  were  far  away. 
She  palsied  his  lips  wi'  a  Stony  Stare 

While  ever  she  said  her  say: 
[8] 


"  Sez  I,  sez  you,  sez  they,  sez  he;  sez  I  to  her,  sez 
she  to  me.  Sez  I  to  him,  'We  got  to  part!'  'Oh, 
Girlie,  ain't  you  got  no  heart?'  sez  he,  so  sad,  I  nearly 
cried.  He'd  took  her  for  a  auto-ride — that  Sadie! 
Ain't  she  got  a  nerve!  Sez  I  to  him,  '  You  don't 
deserve — '  Sez  he,  f  Just  give  a  man  a  chance!' 
Sez  I,  'You  goin  to  the  dance?'  Sez  I  to  him,  sez 
he  to  me;  sez  you,  sez  they,  sez  I,  sez  she." 

Lord  Ronald  was  stout,  Lord  Ronald  was  hale, 

Lord  Ronald  was  bold,  forby; 
His  gauntlet  he  set  on  the  counter-rail; 

He  vaulted  that  Counter  high! 

The  Ribbands,  he  rummaged  them  To  and  Fro, 

He  scattered  them  Fro  and  To, 
Till  he  Sund  in  its  wrapping  as  white  as  snow 

The  Ribband  of  lilac  hue. 

Then  yards  full  three  wi'  his  Snickersnee 

He  cut  of  that  Ribband  gay; 
On  the  Counter  he  told  its  Weight  in  Gold 

And  carried  the  Prize  away; — 

[9] 


Away  from  the  Damsel  of  Cold  Disdain, 
Away  from  the  Mammoth  Store. 

And  he  and  the  Beauteous  Lady  Jane 
Lived  happily  ever  more. 


[10] 


STRICTLY  GERM-PROOF 

/ 
THE  Antiseptic  Baby  and   the  Prophylactic   Pup 

Were  playing  in  the  garden  when  the  Bunny  gam 
boled  up; 

They  looked  upon  the  Creature  with  a  loathing 
undisguised; — 

It  wasn't  Disinfected  and  it  wasn't  Sterilized. 

They  said  it  was  a  Microbe  and   a  Hotbed   of 

Disease; 
They  steamed  it  in  a  vapor  of  a  thousand-odd 

degrees; 
They  froze  it  in  a  freezer  that  was  cold  as  Banished 

Hope 
And  washed  it  in  permanganate  with  carbolated 

soap. 

In  sulphureted  hydrogen  they  steeped  its  wiggly 

ears; 
They  trimmed  its  frisky  whiskers  with  a  pair  of 

hard-boiled  shears; 


They  donned  their  rubber  mittens  and  they  took 

it  by  the  hand 
And  'lected  it  a  member  of  the  Fumigated  Band. 

There's  not  a  Micrococcus  in  the  garden  where 

they  play; 

They  bathe  in  pure  iodoform  a  dozen  times  a  day; 
And   each   imbibes   his   rations   from   a   Hygienic 

Cup — 
The  Bunny  and  the  Baby  and  the  Prophylactic 

Pup. 


[12] 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  FIRST  CAM-U-EL 

AN   ARABIAN   APOLOGUE 

ACROSS  the  sands  of  Syria, 
Or,  possibly,  Algeria, 

Or  some  benighted  neighborhood  of  barrenness  and 
drouth, 

There  came  the  Prophet  Sam-u-el 
Upon  the  Only  Cam-u-el — 

A    bumpy,    grumpy   Quadruped    of   discontented 
mouth. 

The  atmosphere  was  glutinous; 
The  Cam-u-el  was  mutinous; 
He  dumped    the  pack   from   off  his    back;    with 
horrid  grunts  and  squeals 

He  made  the  desert  hideous; 
With  strategy  perfidious 

He  tied  his  neck  in  curlicues,  he  kicked  his  paddy 
heels. 

[13] 


Then  quoth  the  gentle  Sam-u-el, 
"You  rogue,  I  ought  to  lam  you  well! 
Though  zealously  I've  shielded  you  from  every 
grief  and  woe, 

It  seems,  to  voice  a  platitude, 
You  haven't  any  gratitude. 

I'd  like  to  hear  what  cause  you  have  for  doing 
thus  and  so!" 

To  him  replied  the  Cam-u-el, 
"I  beg  your  pardon,  Sam-u-el. 
I  know  that  I'm  a  Reprobate,  I  know  that  I'm  a 
Freak; 

But,  oh!    this  utter  loneliness! 
My  too-distinguished  Onliness! 
Were  there  but  other  Cam-u-els   I  wouldn't  be 
Unique." 

The  Prophet  beamed  beguilingly. 
"Aha,"  he  answered,  smilingly, 
"You  feel  the  need  of  company?     I  clearly  under 
stand. 

We'll  speedily  create  for  you 
The  corresponding  mate  for  you — 
Ho!    presto,  change-o,  dinglebat!" — he  waved  a 
potent  hand, 


And,  lo!    from  out  Vacuity 
A  second  Incongruity, 

To  wit,  a  Lady  Cam-u-el  was  born  through  magic 
art. 

Her  structure  anatomical, 
Her  form  and  face  were  comical; 
She  was,  in  short,  a  Cam-u-el,  the  other's  counter 
part. 

As  Spaniards  gaze  on  Aragon, 
Upon  that  Female  Paragon 

So   gazed    the    Prophet's    Cam-u-el,    that    primal 
Desert  Ship. 

A  connoisseur  meticulous, 
He  found  her  that  ridiculous 

He  grinned  from  ear  to  auricle  until  he  split  his  lip! 

Because  of  his  temerity 
That  Cam-u-el's  posterity 

Must  wear  divided  upper  lips  through  all  their 
solemn  lives! 

A  prodigy  astonishing 
Reproachfully  admonishing 

Those  wicked,  heartless  married  men  who  ridicule 
their  wives. 


A  PROVERBIAL  TRAGEDY 

THE  Rolling  Stone  and  the  Turning  Worm 

And  the  Cat  that  Looked  at  a  King 
Set  forth  on  the  Road  that  Leads  to  Rome — 

For  Youth  will  have  its  Fling, 
The  Goose  will  lay  the  Golden  Eggs, 

The  Dog  must  have  his  Day, 
And  Nobody  locks  the  Stable  Door 

Till  the  Horse  is  stol'n  away. 

But  the  Rolling  Stone,  that  was  never  known 

To  Look  before  the  Leap 
Plunged  down  the  hill  to  the  Waters  Still 

That  run  so  dark,  so  deep; 
And  the  leaves  were  stirred  by  the  Early  Bird 

Who  sought  his  breakfast  where 
He  marked  the  squirm  of  the  Turning  Worm — 

And  the  Cat  was  Killed  by  Care! 


16 


THE  HAT 

IT  was  a  Gallant  blithe  and  gay 

That  walked  the  City  Street; 
The  Street,  ywot,  was  hight  "Broadway," 
The  Gallant,  "Master  William  Gray." 
He  sought  an  Inn,  yclept  "Cafe," 

Because  he  wished  to  eat. 

He  swung  the  Door  with  mickle  Joy 

And  entered  in  thereat, 
When  came  a  Little  Blackguard  Boy 
With  Buttons  all  of  Brass  Alloy, 
Which,  much  to  Master  Gray's  Annoy, 

Essayed  to  Check  his  Hat. 

The  pretty  Hat!    'twas  made  of  Fur, 

It  bore  a  Ribband  Bow; 
'Twas  soft  and  smooth  as  Miniver; 
That  gentle  Hat  it  seemed  to  purr; 
And  Master  Gray  with  strong  Demur 

Refused  to  let  it  go. 

[17] 


"Thou  shalt  not  have  the  Hat,  pardee! 

That  rests  upon  my  Brow; 
A  Hat  it  is  of  High  Degree, 
Fve  worn  it  both  by  Land  and  Sea, 
And  in  its  Youth  it  sheltered  me, 

And  I'll  protect  it  now!" 

Yet  strove  that  Boy  with  Might  and  Main 

And  showed  a  Screed  of  Rules 
Where  "Check  your  Hat!"  was  written  plain 
And  eke,  "All  Guests  must  drink  Champagne/ 
Quoth  Master  Gray  in  High  Disdain, 

"Such  Laws  are  made  for  Fools!" 

"Thou'dst  check  my  Hat,  forsooth? — I  know 

Right  well  the  'why*  and  'whence'! — 
That  when  I  boun  myself  to  go 
Thou'dst  brush  it  hard,  mon  beau  chapeau, 
And  smirk,  and  smile,  and  lout  full  low 
To  cozen  me  of  Pence!" 

But  now  the  Host  a  strong  Array 
Of  Waiters  mustered  there, 
[18! 


Which  muttered,  "Lout!"  and  "Country  Jay!" 
"Where  wouldst  thou  hang  thy  Hat?"  scoffed 

they. 

Replied  this  Gallant,  blithe  and  gay, 
"F  faith,  beneath  my  Chair!" 

They  called  the  Watch  with  lusty  Shout: 

The  City  Watch  renowned, 
With  Fire-lads,  a  sturdy  Rout, 
And  Train-bands,  too,  came  bustling  out, 
And  all  to  tame  the  Stubborn  Lout 

Which  sternly  held  his  Ground. 

"Give  up  the  Hat,"  now  swelled  the  Cry, 

"As  it  is  meet  ye  should!" 
Whereto  this  Gallant  made  Reply, 
"Come  One,  come  All,  this  Hat  shall  fly 
From  its  firm  Base  as  soon  as  I!" 

And  there  the  Matter  stood 

Until  Our  People,  Arms  in  Hand, 

Uprose!    Their  wild  Debates 
And  Tumults  moved  our  Statesmen  bland 
To  change  the  Code  which  rules  the  Land — 

[19] 


The  Constitution  great  and  Grand 
Of  These  United  States! 

They  framed  a  Law,  those  Statesmen  good, 

In  Congress  as  they  sat: 
"Hereafter  be  it  understood 
That  None  that  seeks  an  Inn  for  Food 
Need  Check  his  Headpiece,  Cap,  or  Hood, 

Which  is  to  say,  his  Hat." 

Then  chant  the  Praise,  with  joyous  Din, 

Of  dauntless  Master  Gray, 
Which  braved  the  Terrors  of  that  Inn, 
The  Hat-boy's  Scowl,  the  Waiters'  Grin, 
And  kept  his  Hat  through  Thick  and  Thin 

Upon  that  Famous  Day! 


[20 


A  TROPICAL  TRAGEDY 

AN  Agile  Ambulating  Alligator 

Observed  upon  the  bank  one  sultry  eve, 

A  Patronizing  Prestidigitator 

With  positively  nothing  up  his  sleeve. 

The  Ravenous  Reptilian  Alligator 

Remarked,  "It  must  be  deuced  hot  in  town!" 
And,  winking  at  a  Passing  Legislator, 

He  gulped  the  Prestidigitator  down. 

Alas!    the  Portly  Prestidigitator 

Was  garnished  with  his  Implements  of  Art — 
A  Wand,  a  Patent  Lightning  Calculator, 

A  Rabbit  and  a  Necromantic  Chart. 

Such  Objects  in  the  Saurian's  Equator 
Could  hardly  fail  to  put  him  out  of  trim; 

In  fact,  the  Late-repenting  Alligator 
Acknowledged  that  they  disagreed  with  him. 


And  thus  a  Drear,  Dyspeptic  Alligator 
Is  stretched  upon  the  Silicated  Sands; 

A  Predigested  Prestidigitator 

Is  what  his  Constitution  now  demands. 


[22] 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  CAR 

AN   AUTO-BUY-O-GRAPHIC   BALLAD 

"Now  whither  and  whither,  Lord  Ronald  so  gay, 

And  whither  so  free  and  so  far?" 
"I  haste  to  the  Bounds  o'  the  Great  White  Way 

To  choose  me  a  Motor-Car." 

"And  what  of  the  Car  that  ye  mean  to  buy — 

Its  name  and  its  Pedigree?" 
"Oh,  ask  of  the  Wind  in  the  sounding  Sky, 

But  ask  not  that  of  me! 

"For  it  may  be  a  Leal  or  a  Pupmobile, 
A  Krag  or  a  Biff-McClung; — 
For  many,  ye  ken,  are  the  Motor  Men 
And  marvelous  glib  of  Tongue. 

"It  may  be  a  Czar  or  a  Kwiggle-Kar, 
Or  else,  for  aught  I  know, 
3  [23] 


A  Reinhardt-Fritz  or  a  Dunderblitz 

Or  a  Clement-Rochefoucauld. 

*o  c,  k  f  titcoe 

"For  vowed  am  I  to  a  Mission  high — 

To  search  from  East  to  West 
All  Lands  that  are  till  I  find  the  Car 

Which  is  approved  the  Best. 

"For  I  have  sworn  to  my  Lady  Jane 
By  her  milk-white  hand  so  small 

That  none  will  I  take  for  her  sweet  Sake, 
Until  I  have  seen  them  all!" 

Lord  Ronald  was  come  to  a  proud  Garage 

That  stood  by  a  dismal  Fen; 
And  there,  by  the  Sound  of  their  Persiflage, 

He  knew  were  the  Motor  Men. 

And  one  there  was  with  the  Eagle  Eye, 
The  Face  of  the  Hatchet  True, 

The  Shell-rimmed  Glass  and  the  Bulgar  Tie 
And  the  Collar  edged  with  blue. 

Oh,  Rubies  four  had  the  Ring  he  wore, 
His  Coat  had  the  Latest  Shape; 

[24] 


And  his  Cheek,  shaved  clean  by  a  Razor  keen, 
Was  the  Cheek  of  the  Brazen  Ape. 

He  haled  the  Knight  by  the  Fingers  wan 
To  where  with  Radiance  crowned, 

A  Golden  Car  was  throned  upon 
A  Turning-table  round. 

Oh,  twice  he  bowed  and  thrice  he  bowed 

Before  that  Golden  Chaise; 
Then  full  and  strong  and  loud  and  long 

He  sang  its  Hymn  of  Praise: 

"Approach!  Approach!  redoubted  Knight!  Ap 
proach,  oh,  lucky  Neophyte,  and  view  upon  this 
wooden  Stage  the  Wonder  of  the  Horseless  Age; 
the  King,  the  Ace,  the  Jack  and  Queen  of  all  that 
runs  by  Gasoline;  Invention  s  Incandescent  Star, 
the  Unexampled  Kwiggle-Kar!  The  Motor,  first: 
I  wish  to  state  the  Cylinders  (they  number  eight 
with  Tungsten  Valves]  are  cast  en  bloc;  and  steady, 
steady  as  a  Clock  this  Shaft  of  Higginbotham  Steel 
propels  the  Patent  Caisson  Wheel  which  cannot 
slip  in  Mud  or  Mire  because  it  wears  the  Skidmore 
Tire.  Observe  the  Sweep  from  Front  to  Rear! — 

[25] 


the  Spiral  Bevel  Axle  Gear,  the  Floating  Axle, 
Intake  Pipe,  the  Carburetor  (Ogham  type)!  Can 
Future  Ages  say  too  much  about  our  Multimetal 
Clutch — the  Brake  that  never  disappoints,  the  Ban 
ning  Universal  Joints?  Remark  our  patent  'Sud 
den  Stop'!  Oh,  see  our  Spanish  Leather  Top, 
the  easy-swinging  Pinchless  Door,  the  Turkish  Rug 
upon  the  Floor!  The  Cushions,  neatly  tilted  there, 
are  stuffed  with  Hand-picked  Monkey  Hair.  The 
Roland  Horn — the  Oval  Springs — the  Case  for 
Goggles,  Gloves,  and  Things  —  Ignition  —  Circu 
lation  —  Splash  —  Transmission  —  Spark  Plug 
—  Bumper  —  Dash  —  Magneto  —  Radiator  — 
Feed  —  Control  Equipment  —  Starter  —  Speed! — " 

He  gasped  and  he  clutched  at  the  Atmosphere, 

He  fell  to  the  Parquet  Floor. 
Lord  Ronald  bequeathed  him  a  Silent  Tear 

And  went  to  the  Shop  Next  Door. 

"Come  hither!'*  he  cried  to  the  Man  in  Charge, 

"O  thou  of  the  Stately  Mien, 
And  tell  of  the  Merits  both  small  and  large 

Possessed  of  thy  Buzz  machine! 

[26] 


"For  far  have  I  ridden  and  far  must  ride 

Abroad  on  my  Knightly  Quest 
To  find,  of  all  Cars  in  the  World  so  wide, 

That  Car  which  is  proved  the  Best." 

The  Motor  Man  rose  from  a  Mission  Bench 

That  was  of  the  Quartered  Oak, 
And,  beating  the  Air  with  a  Monkey  Wrench, 

His  rhythmical  Piece  he  spoke: 

"They  brag — yet  do  not  heed  howe'er  these  others 
boast  of  Safety,  Smoothness,  Speed,  or  Trips  from 
Coast  to  Coast.  For  even  if  they  show  a  Vase  for 
Silken  Flowers,  they  have  not — well  they  know! — 
a  WIND  SHIELD  like  to  ours!  All  others  in  the 
Field  lament:  'Alack,  alas!  we  cannot  match  this 
Shield  which  is  not  made  of  Glass9!  'Tis  cut  of 
Crystal  clear  that  may  not  crack  or  dim;  who  has 
it  need  not  fear,  for  naught  can  injure  him.  Be 
hold!  you  set  it  straight  or  slant  it  as  you  please, 
at  seven,  twenty-eight,  or  forty-five  Degrees!  It 
stops  the  Icy  Blast,  repels  the  Dusty  Gust;  it  makes 
the  Car  run  fast,  it  keeps  the  Parts  from  Rust.  It 
keeps  the  Engine  clean,  it  keeps  the  Tires  sound,  it 

[27] 


saves  the  Gasoline,  it  makes  the  Wheels  go  round. 
With  deep,  despairing  Groans  our  Rivals  have  to 
yield!  Then  buy  the  Car  that  owns  this  Ne  Plus 
Ultra  Shield!" 

Sore  tempted  was  Ronald,  but  heaved  a  Sigh 

And  quoth  as  he  left  that  Hall: 
"Nay,  never  a  Motor  I  dare  to  buy 

Until  I  have  seen  them  all!" 

And  many  and  fair,  aye,  many  and  rare 
Were  the  Cars  that  his  Eyes  had  seen 

When  he  entered  a  Store  with  a  Rosewood  Floor — 
A  Place  for  a  Royal  Queen. 

Each  Lamp  that  glowed  in  that  bright  Abode 

Was  pure  as  a  Maiden's  Tear; 
The  Curtains  that  rolled  from  their  Rods  of  Gold 

Were  pink  as  a  Bashful  Ear. 

Of  Onyx  rich  were  the  Columns,  which 
Were  smooth  as  the  Watered  Silk, 

And  lighted  through  with  the  faint,  far  Blue 
That  shines  on  the  City  Milk. 
[28! 


And  there  in  the  Shade  of  its  Rose-leaf  Hood, 

At  rest  in  a  Corner  snug, 
A  Car  that  was  built  for  a  Fairy  stood, 

Its  Wheels  on  a  Persian  Rug. 

A  Squire  rose  up  from  a  Velvet  Seat 
And  beamed  on  the  Worthy  Knight, 

And  chanted  his  Tale  in  a  Voice  as  sweet 
As  the  Trill  of  a  Lark  in  Flight: 

"Rest,  happy  Traveler!  Gaze  upon  the  Car  that's 
called  the  Oberon.  A  Beam  of  Light,  a  winged 
Flower,  the  Car  that  moves  by  Secret  Power.  What 
need  to  praise  its  Perfect  Parts?  Address  it  gently, 
and  it  starts.  Just  speak  to  it  in  kindly  wise,  and 
swiftly,  softly,  off  it  flies.  Without  a  Murmur, 
Creak,  or  Jar,  as  silent  as  a  Shooting  Star  it  drifts 
along  the  Fragrant  Miles,  and  when  it  sees  a  Hill  it 
smiles!  A  Thing  of  Joy  and  Love  and  Song,  it 
sweeps  along,  along,  along,  transporting  them  that 
ride  within  afar  from  Trouble,  Toil,  and  Sin!19 

He  turned  on  Lord  Ronald  his  Eye  so  brown 
And  paused  in  his  lilting  Lay. 

[29] 


But  Ronald  had  fallen  adown,  adown, 
A-swooning  in  Bliss  away! 

They  gathered  him  up  and  they  bore  him  home — ^ 

Six  proper  young  Men  and  tall. 
He  opened  one  Eye  as  the  Stair  they  clomb 

And  sighed:    "I  have  seen  them  all!" 

They  laid  him  to  rest  in  his  downy  Bed 

To  comfort  his  weary  Brain; 
And  tender  and  cool  on  his  fevered  Head 

Was  the  Hand  of  his  Lady  Jane. 

And  long  did  he  fare,  in  the  Realms  of  Dream, 

Anew  on  his  Knightly  Quest. 
And  long  did  he  ponder  the  Mighty  Theme — 

"Which  Car  shall  be  held  the  Best?" 

He  pondered  the  Words  of  the  Motor  Men, 
Their  Reasons  of  Pith  and  Force; 

He  visioned  those  Glorious  Cars,  and  then 
He  rose  and  bought  a  Horse! 


[30] 


A  TRACT  FOR  AUTOS 

COME,  all  you  little  Runabouts 
And  gather  round  my  Knee; 

I'll  tell  you  of  a  Touring  Car 
As  bad  as  bad  could  be: 

It  worked  its  Klaxon  overtime 

To  make  a  Horrid  Noise 
And  thought  it  Fun  to  muss  up  Hens 

And  little  Girls  and  Boys. 

It  used  to  blow  its  Tires  out 

To  hear  its  Owner  swear, 
And  loved  to  balk  on  Trolley  Tracks 

To  give  his  Friends  a  Scare. 

At  last  this  naughty  Touring  Car 
Got  drunk  on  Too  Much  Oil, 

And  went  a-boiling  up  the  Road 
As  hard  as  it  could  boil, 

[31] 


And  went  a-plunging,  tumbling  down 

A  dreadful,  dark  Ravine; 
And  there  it  burns  and  burns  and  burns 

In  smelly  Gasoline! 

Another  little  Touring  Car 

Was  very,  very  good; 
It  always  minded  Brake  and  Wheel, 

And  never  splashed  its  Hood. 

It  wouldn't  skid,  nor  anger  Folks 

By  giving  them  a  Shove, 
But  cooed  as  gently  through  its  Horn 

As  any  Sucking  Dove. 

It  never  grew  Unmannerly 

To  Market-Cart  or  Dray, 
But  whispered,  "Please,"  and,  "Thank  you, 
Sir!" 

To  those  that  blocked  its  Way. 

It  never  scattered  Bolts  and  Plugs 
About  the  Countryside, 

[32] 


But  did  its  Level  Best  to  be 
Its  Owner's  Joy  and  Pride. 

So,  when  'twas  Time  to  yield  its  Place 

To  Models  fresh  and  new, 
This  lovely  little  Touring  Car 

Developed  Planes  and  flew! 


33 


THE  TALE  OF  A  DAGHESTAN  RUG 

"Whatever  their  type  of  ornamentation  may  be,  a 
deep  and  complicated  symbolism,  originating  in  Baby 
lon  and  possibly  India,  pervades  every  denomination 
of  Oriental  carpets." — SIR  GEORGE  BIRDWOOD. 

STRANGE  Stones  of  their  Simple  Lives 
Do  Oriental  Maids  and  Wives 
Embroider,  so  the  Dealers  tell  us, 
In  Symbols  on  the  Rugs  they  sell  us. 

Then  read  the  Record  woven  thus 
By  Zillah  of  the  Caucasus, 
Deciphered  by  my  Friend,  Sardjeenian, 
A  Most  Reliable  Armenian. 


Among  the  Hills  of  Daghestan 

That  frown  upon  the  Wayside  Khan, 

Her  Father's  Hospitable  Villa,— 
The  Fairest  of  her  People,  Zillah, 

[34] 


Composed,  with  skilful  Twist  and  Tug, 
An  Odjaklik,  or  Hearthside  Rug; — 

Enweaving  there  in  those  Queer  Symbols 
That  look  like  Rolling-pins  and  Thimbles, 

Her  simple  Joys  and  Hopes  and  Fears, 
The  Story  of  her  Maiden  Years. 

With  Entertainment  to  provide  her 

A  Long-tailed  Lambkin  played  beside  her 

And  cropped  the  Mead  and  quaffed  the  Stream ;- 
A  Cherished  Pet  with  Fleece  of  Cream 

But  lately  rescued  from  a  Leopard 
By  Kurdish  Kar,  the  Gentle  Shepherd. 

Along  the  Road  from  Erivan 
A  Warrior  with  Yataghan 

And  other  Social  Incidentals 
Au  fait  among  the  Orientals, — 

[35] 


In  Cutaway  Capote  arrayed, 
Approached  to  woo  the  Mountain  Maid. 

"My  Name,"  said  he,  "Resplendent  Zillah, 
Is  Ali  Abdul  Hassan  Billah! 

"I  come,  perhaps  you  understand, 
To  beg  that  Precious  Gift,  you  Hand. 

"Behold!    I  faint  from  Sheer  Emotion! 
Ah,  let  me  prove  my  Heart's  Devotion! — 

"Assign  me  any  Awful  Task; 
I  vow  to  do  whatever  you  ask!" 

The  Maiden  lisped:    "Your  Offer's  handsome 
(I  know  you're  worth  a  Prince's  Ransom); 

"I  may  decide  to  be  your  Wife, — 
But  search  me  first  the  Tree  of  Life 

"Which  blooms  through  all  the  Seasons'  Changes 
Among  our  bleak  Caucasian  Ranges, 

[36] 


"And  cull  for  me  the  Mystic  Pear 
That  you  will  find  a-growing  there. 

"But  let  me  warn  you,  Ardent  Stranger, 
You'll  find  the  Errand  full  of  Danger! 

"For  first  you  needs  must  bring  to  Terms 
The    Three -horned      Birds     and     Hunchbacked 
Worms 

"That  lurk  among  the  Giant  Boulders 
To  prey  on  Indiscreet  Beholders. 

"Then  must  you  slay  a  Fiercer  yet — 
The  wild  Constricting  Dragonette 

"That  dwells  beyond  the  Andi  River. 
And  last, — oh,  how  the  Mountains  quiver 

"If  he  but  gives  his  Tail  a  Whisk!— 
The  dread  Tri-cornered  Basilisk!" 

Low  bowed  the  Chief  of  Haughty  Bearing 
And  galloped  to  the  Northward,  swearing 

[37] 


To  battle,  conquer,  seek  and  find. 

(And  Kar  the  Shepherd  trudged  behind.) 

Right  gallantly  adventured  AH 

Through  Rugged  Pass  and  Gloomy  Valley. 

His  Sword  divided  into  Thirds 
The    Hunchbacked    Worms    and    Three  -  horned 
Birds. 

Against  the  Serpentine  Constrictor 
He  likewise  proved  a  Noble  Victor. 

And  then  he  challenged,  brave  and  brisk, 
The  dread  Tri-cornered  Basilisk, 

Which,  pausing  not  to  scrutinate  him, 
Unlocked  its  Grisly  Jaws,  and  ate  him! 

Oh,  Fatal  Meal! — Upon  its  Side 

The  Poisoned  Creature  writhed,  and  died! 

Now  Kar  the  Shepherd,  sadly  rueing, 
Surveyed  the  Tragic  Scene  till,  viewing 
[38] 


The  Tree  of  Life  unguarded  there, 
He  gathered  in  the  Mystic  Pear. 

Thus,  laden  down  with  Fate's  Providings, 
The  Precious  Fruit  and  Sorry  Tidings, 

He  lifted  up  his  Feet  and  ran 
And  told  the  Belle  of  Daghestan. 

A  Maiden  who  has  lost  a  Lover 
Should  not  too  rapidly  recover; 

Still,  Ali,   that   Unlucky  Man, 
Left  Widows  Five  in  Erivan; 

And  so  the  Philosophic  Zillah 
Resignedly  remarked,  "Bismillah!" 

And  since  the  Foes  of  Basilisks 
Are  not  the  Best  Insurance  Risks, — 

She  vowed  no  more  her  Hopes  to  jeopard 
And  married  Kar,  the  Gentle  Shepherd. 

4  [39] 


A  PURE  MATHEMATICIAN 

LET  Poets  chant  of  Clouds  and  Things 

In  lonely  attics! 
A  Nobler  Lot  is  his,  who  clings 

To  Mathematics. 

Sublime  he  sits,  no  Worldly  Strife 

His  Bosom  vexes, 
Reducing  all  the  Doubts  of  Life 

To  Y's  and  X's. 

And  naught  to  him's  a  Primrose  on 

The  river's  border; 
A  Parallelepipedon 

Is  more  in  order. 

Let  Zealots  vow  to  do  and  dare 

And  right  abuses! 
He'd  rather  sit  at  home  and  square 

Hypotenuses. 

[40] 


Along  his  straight-ruled  paths  he  goes 
Contented  with  'em, 

The  only  Rhythm  that  he  knows, 
A  Logarithm! 


THE  POEM  ON  SPRING 

GREAT  AH,  the  Sultan,  I've  heard — 

(Please  attend  to  my  proem!), 
Was  shrewd   as   the  serpent — aye,   Solon  to  him 
was  a  dunce; 

Who  else  could  repeat  every  word 

Of  a  sermon,  a  poem, 

Or  any  old  thing  that  was  spoken  before  him  but 
once  ? 

While  Eben  al  Hamid,  his  short 

Ethiopic  attendant 

And  factum  factotum,  they  say  could  repeat  in  a 
trice 

The  plea  of  a  lawyer  in  court 

For  a  guilty  defendant, 

Or  President's  Message  (perhaps),  if  he  heard  it 
but  twice. 

Whenever  a  bard  would  intone 
An  original  sonnet 

[42] 


(For  Sultans,  you  know,  are  the  prey  of  the  metri 
cal  bore), 

"That's  ancient,"  the  Ruler  would  groan, 

As  Mehitable's  bonnet! 

Now  listen,  and  see  for  yourself  that  I've  heard  it 
before." 

Whereat  he  would  echo  each  phrase 

With  precision  emphatic; 

And  Eben,  in  turn,  would  repeat,  never  missing  a 
rhyme; 

The  poet  would  slink  in  a  daze 

To  his  sorrowful  attic, 

While  Eben  and  Ali  would  laugh  for  a  week  at  a 
time. 

Then  Ali  proclaimed  in  his  pride: 

"For  reward  I  will  measure 
The  weight  of  that  poem  in  gold  which  is  proved 
to  be  new." 

And  many  a  balladist  tried 

For  that  fistful  of  treasure; 

But  penniless,  puzzled,  and  shamed  every  singer 
withdrew. 

[43] 


At  length  came  a  minstrel  of  guile 

(From  the  West,  so  I  fear  me); 
He  tinkled  his  merry  guitar  and   addressed  him 
to  sing: 

"Your  Highness,"  quoth  he  with  a  smile, 

"Will  it  please  ye  to  hear  me? 
I've  something  that's  Purely  Unique — 'tis  a  Poem 
on   Spring. — 

"A  Genuine  Triumph  of  Mind 

That  is  urgently  needed 

By  seventeen  best  magazines.     Have  I  leave  to 
begin?" 

"Proceed,"  sighed  the  Sultan,  resigned; 

And  the  Minstrel  proceeded 
To  startle  the  court  with  this  Chant  of  Original  Sin: 

"'Tis  Spring  on  the  lily-white  leas 

Of  the  Forest  of  Arden! 

'Tis   Spring!    and   the  blossoms  appear  and   the 
leveret  plays; 

The  butterflies  drift  on  the  breeze 

To  the  elf-haunted  garden; 

The  birdies  of  meadow  and  grove  are  rehearsing 
their  lays. 

[44] 


"' Bo-peep!     Hullychee!'  sings  the  Flick; 

'Korry-boo!'  moans  the  Chitter; 
'Quee-boggle-chee-pilli-moran!'     sobs     the     Killi- 
koloo. 

*  Ping-pong !     Watchi-toodle-kerwick  !' 

All  the  Merimees  twitter. 
The  Niblick  avers,  'Kalli-bosh,  taradiddle,  koroo.5 

"'Go-dum,  bally-hoosh  P  is  the  note 

Of  the  Icthyosaurus. 

'  Notorum-dorando !'  the  blithe  Hippocampus  re 
plies; 

'  Chim-chim-orizaba-pelote !' 

Rings  the  jubilant  chorus 
Of  sweet  Pterodactyls  that  wing  the  cerulean  skies. 

"'The  Kiddle  observes  to  his  mate, 

'  Borum-ago-majellum, 

Elan,  rododacktylos  bree.'     While  the  somnolent 
Bruff 

Ascends  to  the  heavenly  gate 
Chanting,  'Ho!    Parabellum 

Enteuthen '"     "Help!     Stop!    Oh,  my  head!" 

cried  the  Sultan;  "Enough! 
[45] 


"I've  echoed  queer  words,  I  admit, 
All  your  brotherhood  downing; 
But  who  could  repeat  these  uncivilized  sounds  you 
have  made! 

Your  poem  should  make  quite  a  hit 

With  the  students  of  Browning — 
So  bring  in  your  Manuscript,  friend,  and  the  gold 
shall  be  weighed." 

The  Poet  went  forth,  and  returned 

With  his  holiday  sash  on, 

Propelling  a  cart  with  a  load  of  the  heaviest  brick 
On  which  he  had  graven  and  burned, 

Babylonian  fashion, 

The  "words"  of  his    poem! — a   mean,   reprehen 
sible  trick! 

The  Sultan,  demurring,  'tis  true, 
Made  an  end  by  bestowing 

The  weight  of  that  poem  in  gold, — a  prodigious 
expense. 

And  this  have  I  sung  unto  you 
For  the  purpose  of  showing 

That  even  Spring  Poets  may  manifest  hard  common 
sense! 

[46] 


TRUE  SPRING 

WHAT,  spring,  because  a  day  is  fair, 

Because  a  brook  is  flowing, 
Because  a  maple  here  and  there 

A  flash  of  red  is  showing, 

Because  the  frost  has  lost  a  tooth, 
And  ice-packs  jar  and  splinter? 

You  call  it  "spring"  because,  forsooth, 
It  simply  isn't  winter! 

No,  spring  has  gladder  signs  than  these; 

I'll  know  that  spring  is  coming 
When  lilacs  blow,  when  velvet  bees 

In  apple-boughs  are  humming, 

When  softer  shadows  fall  aslant 
The  fragrant  meadow  mazes: 

I'll  call  it  spring  when  I  can  plant 
One  foot  on  seven  daisies. 

[47] 


AN  ADIRONDACK  IDYLL 

TWAS  August;    all   the  Verdant  Vales 
With  Marigolds  were  decked; 

The  Groves  were  loud  with  Nightingales- 
Or  Birds  to  That  Effect; 

And  Squirrels  frolicked  High  and  Low 

While,  from  the  Waters  dim 
Ambitious  Troutlets  leaped,  to  show 

That  they  were  in  the  Swim. 

The  Owl  observed  to  Bashful  Doves, 

Too  shy  to  bill  and  coo, 
"Now,  don't  mind  me,  my  Little  Loves, 

Proceed:    To  wit,  to  woo." 

Beneath  the  Birch,  beneath  the  Spruce, 

Perchance  beneath  the  Pine, 
A  Maiden  walked,  a  Fair  Recluse, 

The  lovely  Angeline. 

[48] 


The  Daughter  of  a  Mountain  Guide, 
She  dwelt  beside  the  Mere; 

An  Orphan  since  her  Father  died — 
Mistaken  for  a  Deer. 

So,  honoring  in  Memorie 

Her  Late  Pro-gen-i-tor, 
She  idolized  the  Deer  that  he 

Had  been  Mistaken  For. 

The  Pretty  Pet  she  often  fed 

With  Caramels  or  Grass, 
And  Much  the  Antlered  Quadruped 

Esteemed  the  Forest  Lass. 

To  her  upon  the  Woodland  Way 
With  Pleadings  New  and  Strange 

A  Ranger  came — their  Wedding-Day 
He  begged  her  to  Arrange. 

But,  oh!  the  Scornful  Maiden  gave 

Her  Answer  brief  and  tart: 
"My  Deer,  whom  Father  died  to  save, 

Possesses  all  my  Heart!" 

[49] 


A  Horrid  Oath  that  Ranger  took! 

(He  swore  beneath  his  Breath). 
"A  Rival  shall  I  tamely  brook? 

Morbleu!     Carr-rramba!    'sdeath! 

"Her  'Dear'!— Gadzooks,  I  know  the  Man! 

That  lovelorn  Guide  shall  die!" 
And  home  the  Ranger  stalked,  to  plan 

His  Crime  and  Alibi. 

That  Night  he  watched  beside  her  Cot; — 
The  Bushes  cracked  and  swayed; — 

Out  rang  the  Deadly  Rifle  Shot! 
Out  rushed  the  Woeful  Maid! 

"Ah,  Wasteful  Hunter!"  rose  her  Wails, 

"To  slay  this  Deer  of  mine, 
All  Out  of  Season,  which  entails 

A  Hundred-Dollar  Fine!" 

"Not  so,  not  so,  my  Love,  my  Fair," 

The  Ranger  straight  replied, 
"For  I  (as  Witnesses  shall  swear) 

Mistook  him  for  a  Guide! 


"Since  I  Mistook  him  for  a  Guide, 
Miss,  take  me  for  your  Dear!" — 

The  Maiden  blushed,  the  Maiden  sighed, 
The  Maiden  deigned  to  hear. 

And  when  upon  the  Pair  the  Priest 

Had  said  his  Ben-i-son, 
I  grieve  to  say,  their  Wedding  Feast 

Was  mainly  Ven-i-son! 


[51] 


A  BUNGALOW 

BY  all  the  winds  of  Summer-time!     I'll  seek  the 

nymph  again 
Who  wakes  the  grass  between  the  stones  to  move 

the  hearts  of  men, 

Who  blows  a  playful  kiss  or  two  of  dandelion- 
down, 

And  sends  the  gipsy  butterfly  to  lure  a  lad  from 
town. 

I'm  going  to  build  a  bungalow, 
A  bing-bang  bungalow, 

A    creeper-curtained    bungalow,    where    hemlocks 
idly  dream. 

Fm  going  to  build  a  bungalow, 
A  bing-bang  .bungalow, 

A    cedar-shingled    bungalow    beside    a    mountain 
stream. 

The  beams  shall  be  of  maple  wood,  the  floors  of 
healthful  pine; 

[5*1 


The  spruce,  with  rough  and   resined   bark,  shall 

wall  this  house  of  mine; 
While   round   about,  of  ample   breadth,   a   rustic 

porch  shall  run 

Below  a  birchen  canopy  against  the  checkered  sun. 
I'm  going  to  build  a  bungalow, 
A  bing-bang  bungalow, 

A  forest-fragrant  bungalow  with  room  for  three 
or  four. 

I'm  going  to  build  a  bungalow, 
A  bing-bang  bungalow, 

A    zephyr-haunted    bungalow    beside    a    rippled 
shore. 

With  every  quick-eyed  featherling  that  loves  the 
friendly  wood, 

With  all  the  gentle  furry  folk  I'll  dwell  in  brother 
hood. 

My  castle  roof  shall  bear  the  proof  of  crystal- 
arrowed  rain, 

And  Peace  shall  be  my  seneschal,  and  Love  my 
chatelaine. 

I'm  going  to  build  a  bungalow, 
A  bing-bang  bungalow, 

[53] 


An  open-hearted  bungalow  devoid  of  bolts  and 
bars. 

I'm  going  to  build  a  bungalow, 
A  bing-bang  bungalow, 

A  tranquil   little  bungalow  to  rest  beneath  the 
stars. 


[54] 


DORLAN'S  HOME-WALK 

THE  ninth;  last  half;  the  score  was  tied, 
The  Hour  was  big  with  Fate, 

For  Neal  had  fanned  and  Kling  had  flied 
When  Dorian  toed  the  plate. 

And  every  rooter  drew  a  breath 

And  rose  from  where  he  sat, 
For  Weal  or  Woe,  or  Life  or  Death 

Now  hung  on  Dorian's  bat. 

The  Pitcher  scowled;    the  Pitcher  flung 

An  inshoot,  swift   and  queer; 
But  Dorian  whirled  his  wagon-tongue 

And  smote  the  leathern  sphere. 

He  smote  the  ball  with  might  and  main, 

He  drove  it  long  and  low, 
And  firstward  like  a  railway  train 

He  sped  to  beat  the  throw. 
5  [SSl 


He  reached  first  base  with  time  to  spare 
(The  throw  went  high  and  wide), 

But  what  a  tumult  rent  the  air 
When  "Safe!"  the  Umpire  cried. 

"What!"  shrieked  the  Pitcher,  lean  and  tall, 
"What!"  roared  the  Catcher  stout, 

"Wha-at!"  yelled  the  Basemen  one  and  all, 
"Ye' re  off!    the  man  is  out!" 

The  Shortstop  swore,  the  Catcher  pled, 

They  waved  their  arms  around. 
The  Umpire  shook  his  bullet-head 

And  sternly  held  his  ground, 

Though  in  the  wild-eyed  Fielders  ran 

To  tear  him  limb  from  limb 
Or  else  to  tell  that  erring  man 

Just  what  they  thought  of  him. 

The  Basemen  left  the  bases  clear 
And  came  to  urge  their  case; — 

So  Dorian  yawned  and  scratched  his  ear 
And  strolled  to  second  base. 

[56] 


"Safe?  Safe?"  the  Pitcher  hissed,  "Ye' re  blind!" 

And  breathed  a  Naughty  Word; 
While  Dorian  hitched  his  belt  behind 

And  rambled  on  to  third. 

And  throats  were  hoarse  and  words  ran  high 
And  lips  were  flecked  with  foam, 

As  Dorian  scanned  the  azure  sky 
And  ambled  on  toward  home. 

And  still  he  heard  in  dreamy  bliss, 

As  down  the  line  he  came, 
The  Umpire  growl,  "Enough  o'  this! 

He's  safe.     Now  play  the  game!" 

"All  right.     Come,  boys,"  the  Pitcher  bawled; 

"Two  out;    now  make  it  three!" 
When  Dorian  touched  the  plate  and  drawled, 

"Hey!    score  that  run  fer  me!" 

What  wrath  was  there,  what  bitter  talk, 

What  joy  and  wild  acclaim! 
For  Dorian's  peaceful  homeward  walk 

Had  won  the  doubtful  game. 

[57] 


Aye,  thus  the  game  was  lost  and  won; 

So,  Athletes,  great  and  small, 
If  like  mischance  ye  fain  would  shun 

Keep  cool,  don't  kick,  play  ball. 


[58] 


BASEBALL  IN  DE  PARK 

THE  Captain  of  the  Neversweats  was  rooted  in 
his  place, 

One  foot  upon  the  tattered  coat  that  served  for 
second  base; 

His  ashen-hued  habiliments  were  padded,  hip 
and  knee 

(The  Captain  of  the  Neversweats  was  all  of  three- 
foot-three)  ; 

A  mighty  mitt  incased  his  paw;  he  spat  upon 
the  same 

And  chirped,  with  shouted  interludes,  the  Story 
of  the  Game: 

'  'Twas  Sattid'y,  a  week  ago,  we  played  de  Busy 

Bees; 
Dey  rung  a  borrered  pitcher  in,  an'  say!    he  wuz 

de  cheese! 
De  way  he  handed  pretzels  out  wuz  putty  near  a 

crime; 

[59] 


He  chucked  dis   curly  inshoot-drop  dat  fools  ye 

ev'ry  time. 
He'd  held  us  down  to  forty  hits,  an*  t'ings  wuz 

lookin'  blue, 
Fer  dey  had  fifty-seven  runs,  while  we  had  t'irty- 

two. 
He'd  held  us  down  to  forty  hits,  an*  runs  wuz 

mighty  rare; 
But  in  de  nint'  we  sized  'im  up  an*  pasted  'im 

fer  fair. 


"Foist,    Dumpy    Collins    found    his    coives    an* 

knocked  a  corkin'  fly; 
Den  Limpy  picked  a  cracker  jack  an'  smashed  it 

in  de  eye; 
Den  Skeezicks  hit  de  ball  a  swipe  dat  lifted  off 

de  lid; 
An*  Carrots   ran  de  bags  fer  home,  an*   cricky! 

how  he  slid! 
Dem   Bees  wuz    stiffs!    dey  couldn't   t'row,   dey 

couldn't  ketch  at  all, 
While  we  wuz  playin'  fer  our  lives — we  couldn't 

miss  de  ball. 

[60] 


"An'  did  we  win?  Well,  did  we!  Say!  Dey 
didn't  git  a  smell. 

We  chased  each  udder  roun'  de  bags — 'twuz 
like  de  carrousel. 

Why,  w'en  we  put  de  las'  man  out  an'  added  up 
de  score 

Dey  hadn't  only  eighty  runs,  an'  we  had  ninety- 
four! 

What!  Lick  dese  lobsters?  Sure  we  kin,  at 
any  time  o'  year! 

Jes'  watch;  we'll  show  ye  how  it's  done.  Hi, 
Cully!  put  'er  here!" 


[61] 


A  NEW  MEXICAN  BO-PEEP 

NEAR  the  Llano  Estacado 

Famed  for  deeds  of  wild  bravado, 

Winsome  Maraquita  Fancher, 
Orphan  child  of  Bill  the  rancher, 

Led  her  flock  of  frisky  muttons, 
Fed  the  pretty  woolly  gluttons — 

Lamb  and  wether,  ewe  and  chilver,1 
Clothed  in  fleeces  bright  as  silver. 

There  she  rambled,  much  respected, 
Free  as  air  and  well  protected 

By  her  ram,  a  big  Merino, 
Widely  known  as  "Filippino." 

^irst  appearance  of  the  only  rhyme  for  "  silver "  in  cap 
tivity  1 

[62] 


Wise  he  was;    the  world  had  schooled  him; 
Human  nature  "never  fooled  him. 

Maraquita,  most  acutely, 

Took  his  judgments  ab-so-lutely. 

Cesar  Gil,  a  swart  vaquero, 
Quite  the  gallant  caballero 

(Though  his  legs  were  slightly  bandy), 
Rode  across  the  Rio  Grande, 

Came  a-courting  Maraquita, 
Praising  her  as  "muy  bonita!" 

Humbly  bowing,  sweetly  sighing 
False,  false  vows  of  love  undying. 

Filippino  left  his  grazing, 

Turned  and  viewed  the  scene  amazing; 

Charged!    and,  headlong  hurtling,  fairly 
Met  the  Issue  full  and  squarely. 


Cesar  Gil,  the  dusky  dandy, 
Soared  across  the  Rio  Grande, 

Rolling  resonant  "  carr-rrambas !" 
Still  pursued  by  mocking  lamb-baas. 

So  it  chanced  with  other  wooers 
(False  deceivers,  base  pursuers) — 

Claude  Dulane  the  turquoise-digger, 
Faro  Pete  the  thimble-rigger, 

Denbigh  Booth  the  tragic  mummer, 
Curtis  Sharpe  the  hardware  drummer, 

Ellis  Farnham  Walsh  of  Reno, 
Came — and  fled  from  Filippino. 

Now  appeared  a  Handsome  Stranger, 
Rollo  Jones,  the  Texas  Ranger^ 

Bringing  lots  of  love — a  heartful! 
Brave  and  true,  but  gently  artful. 


First  he  talked  to  Filippino, 
Talked  of  poker,  whist,  and  keno, 

Cattle,  crime,  and  politicians, 
Calming  down  the  Ram's  suspicions. 

4 

Next,  as  though  to  serenade  him, 
Lively,  tuneful  airs  he  played  him, — 

Ragtime  lilt  and  light  fandango; — 
Showed  him  how  they  dance  the  tango. 

Then  he  brought,  with  perfect  breeding, 
Little  gifts  of  dainty  feeding 

(Since  the  grass  was  growing  sparsely) — 
Carrots,  turnips,  beets,  and  parsley. 

Thus  the  Ranger,  true  and  clever, 
Made  that  Ram  his  friend  for  ever. 

Well,  the  rest  was  bound  to  follow: 
Filippino,  leading  Rollo, 


Trotted  up  to  Maraquita. 

Jones  now  calls  her  "mi  lindita" 

Or  he  did,  as  I  remember, 

When  I  saw  them,  last  November, 

Eating  prime  Thanksgiving  turkey 
At  their  home  in  Albuquerque. 


[66] 


THE  MEXICAN  HAMMOCK 

'TWAS  richly  vermilion  and  flagrantly  yellow 

When  brought  from  the  region  of  sunlit  plateaus, 
But,  softened  by  service  and  restfully  mellow, 

It  swings  in  the  grove  where  the  rivulet  flows. 
Its  ring-bolts  are  tarnished,  its  spreaders  unvar 
nished; 

It  sags  at  an  angle  of  forty  degrees; 
With  reedles  of  balsam  its  meshes  are  garnished — 

The  Mexican    Hammock   that  hangs  from  the 
trees. 

The  Mexican  Hammock, 
The  grass-woven  Hammock, 
The  trusty  old  Hammock 
That  droops  from  the  trees. 

When,  sick  of  the  city's  perpetual  riot, 

I  come  for  the  healing  that  Silence  bestows, 


Overshadowed  by  green-tasseled  curtains  of  quiet, 

It  offers  a  bounteous  depth  of  repose. 
So  softly  allaying  and  balmily  swaying, 

It  woos  with  its  motion  the  health-laden  breeze 
That  soon  down  the  River  of  Dreams  I  am  stray 
ing, 

Adrift  in  the  Hammock  that  hangs  from  the 
trees. 

The  Mexican  Hammock, 
The  grass-woven  Hammock, 
The  friendly  old  Hammock 
That  droops  from  the  trees. 

Now    crickets    are    hymning    the    Night    for   her 

guerdon; 

The  dewdrops  have  solaced  the  half-opened  rose. 
How  deeply  it  bends  with  a  generous  burden! 

How  sweet  are  the  secrets — that  nobody  knows! 
The   words    that   reveal    them,    the    tokens   that 

seal  them, 

The  whispers  more  soft  than  the  murmur  of 
bees — 

[68] 


The  bird?  shall  not  learn  them,  the  winds  may 

not  steal  them 

Away  from  the  Hammock  that  hangs  from  the 
trees. 

The  crafty  old  Hammock, 
The  blessed  old  Hammock, 
The  match-making  Hammock 
That  droops  from  the  trees. 


A  LAY  OF  MASSACHUSETTS  BAY 

THE  world  went  well;    the  heavens  smiled,  com 
placent, 
On  Massachusetts  Bay  and  parts  adjacent; 

The  Savages,  arrayed  in  skins  of  beavers, 
Had  been  removed  by  providential  fevers; 

The  fields  were  flourishing,  and  e'en  the  bearish 
Allowed  that  trade  and  fisheries  were  fairish; 

The  Williamses,  the  Hutchinsons,  the  Quakers 
And  other  contumacious  trouble-makers, 

Convinced  by  potent  arguments,  had  vanished 
(Imprisoned,    whipped    at    cart-tail,    hanged    or 
banished), 

When  Parson  Bondish,  strong  in  exhortation, 
Arose  to  edify  the  congregation, 

[70] 


Beginning — (not  in  total  self-effacement) — 
With  some  few  words  of  personal  abasement. 

"Dear    Brothers/'    quoth    the    Preacher,    "in    all 

meekness 
I  come,  a  child  of  wrath  and  sin  and  weakness — " 

"Amen!  that's  true!"  intoned  a  rash  invader, 
Defiance  Cock,  the  surly  Indian  trader. 

"Yea,    here    I    stand,"    resumed    the    scowling 

Preacher, 
"A  Thing  of  Naught,  a  miserable  creature — " 

"Aye,"  growled  the  Trader,  "ye  were  born  and 

bred  so; 
'Tis  true  as  Gospel — even  if  ye  said  so." 

"A  Worm  am  I!"  the  Parson  thundered,  banging 
His  oaken  desk — "A  Wretch  too  bad  for  hanging!" 

"Correct,"  cried  Cock,  despite  impending  fury, 
"As  I  will  gladly  prove  before  a  jury." 
6  [71] 


Good  Bondish  clenched  both  fists;  a  stout  crusader, 
He  braved  Defiance  Cock,  the  Indian  trader. 

"When  I,"  he  blared,  "self-humbled,  would  have 

cleared  me 
Of  Pride  of  Flesh,  thou  venturest  to  beard  me? 

"I  own  my  faults,  I  hope  to  rise  above  them — 
But  no  one  else  shall  dare  to  tell  me  of  them!" 

Whereat,  the  Parson  rapidly  descended — 
And  then  and  there  the  controversy  ended, 

Stern  Bondish  preaching  hours,  unrelenting, 
At  Cock  within  the  pillory,  repenting. 

And  this  is  why  I  dare  not  tell  my  story — 
For  Boston  might  not  think  it  laudatory; 

And  why  I'll  ever  strive  to  be  complacent 
Toward  Massachusetts  Bay  and  parts  adjacent. 


THE    PILGRIMS'    THANKSGIVING    FEAST 

THE  Pilgrims  landed,  worthy  men, 

And,  saved  from  wreck  on  raging  seas, 

They  fell  upon  their  knees,  and  then 
Upon  the  Aborigines. 

In  thankfulness  they  planned  a  feast 

On  all  the  country  might  afford. 
(The  grace  consumed  an  hour  at  least, 

Whence  rose  the  phrase,  "The  festive  bored.") 

And  some  through  groves  of  pine  and  oak 

Pursued  the  doe;    and  even  so 
All  patriotic  Yankee  folk 

Unceasingly  pursue  the  dough. 

They  bearded  bruin  in  his  lair 

Or  stalked  the  stag  in  forests  drear. 

Alas!    their  festal  dish  was  bear, 
Or  venison — though  that  was  deer. 

[73] 


Still,  native  viands  pleased  them  most — 
The  native  maize,  for  that  was  new; 

They  ate  the  native  boiled  and  roast 
And  even  ate  the  native  stew! 


(74 


THE  WISHBONE 

ANOTHER  fowl  had  gone  the  way 
That  turkeys  go,  Thanksgiving  Day; 

In  ruins  lay  the  pumpkin  pie, 
The  foaming  cider-jug  was  dry. 

The  merry  guests  had  left  their  chairs, 
The  old  in  groups,  the  young  in  pairs, 

And  Mark  and  Prue  (if  one  might  look) 
Were  safe  within  the  ingle-nook. 

And  Mark  and  Prue  agreed  to  break 
A  wishbone,  just  for  friendship's  sake — 

A  wishbone,  smooth  and  polished  bright 
As  best  befits  the  magic  rite. 

Each  wished  a  wish  in  undertone; 

With  thumbs  close-pressed  they  snapped  the  bone — 

[751 


And  none  but  Mark  heard  Prudence  laugh 
Because  she  held  the  larger  half; 

And  only  Prudence  knew  how  dark 
And  hopeless  grew  the  face  of  Mark. 

"Why,  Mark!"  cried  Prue;  "since  Time  began 
Who  ever  saw  a  six-foot  man 

"Become  so  glum  and  vaporish 
Because  he'd  lost  a  silly  wish!" 

"Yes,  laugh!"  groaned  Mark,  "for  you  have  won  I 
Pve  lost  all  joy  beneath  the  sun 

"And  all  the  hope  I  had  in  life — 

I  wished  that  Prue  should  be  my  wife." 

She  frowned,  and  then  she  smiled  instead, 
And  then  she  tossed  her  curly  head 

And  laughed  outright,  that  shameless  Prue, 
"Oh,  never  mind!     I  wished  that,  too!" 

[76] 


A   TRUE    BILL   AGAYNST    CHRISTMASSE 

I  WILL  not  hear  of  Christmasse  Cheer 
Nor  Christmasse  Bells  a-ringing! 

A  Christmasse  Tree  I  loathe  to  see, 
I'm  deaf  to  Carol-singing. 

I  will  not  troll  ye  Wassail  Bowl! 

I  love  no  strong  Potations, 
Nor  Yule  that  brings  ye  Gatherings 

Of  Nondescript  Relations. 

Forbeare  to  show  ye  Mistletoe! 

All  Proper  Men  disdain  it; 
Ye  Prettie  Maid  wolde  scorn  its  Aid, 

Ye  Plaine  One  sholde  not  gain  it. 

Give  Pause,  give  Pause  to  Santa  Claus! 

His  Course  is  trulie  shocking; 
I  understand  he  has  a  Hande 

In  Everybodie's  Stocking! 

[77] 


Yet,  void  of  Shame,  they  praise  his  Name 

In  Reams  of  idle  Verses, 
And  call  him  kind  that  leaves  behind 

A  Trail  of  emptie  Purses. 

Sharp  Sorrows  lie  in  Christmasse  Pie 
Which  treble  when  they  heat  it. 

I  have  no  Use  for  Christmasse  Goose 
Nor  Cannibals  that  eat  it. 

For  Ills  and  Pills  and  Doctor's  Bills 
Are  scarce  a  Cause  for  Laughter; 

Ye  Tables  groan  before  ye  Feaste, 
Ye  Feasters  groan  thereafter. 


THE  STOCKING 

I  SING  of  Pieter  Dundervelt 

In  quaint  New  Amsterdam  who  dwelt 

And  loved  a  maid  in  beauty's  bloom — 
Annette  DeVries  von  Schlagenboom. 

Like  all  true  lovers,  more  or  less. 
Our  Piet  inclined  to  bashfulness, 

And  when  he  should  have  pressed  his  suit 
Was  silent,  speechless,  dumb,  and  mute. 

'Twas  drawing  near  that  night  of  nights 
When  good  Saint  Nicholas  delights 

To  ride  with  gifts  for  old  and  young, 
When  backward  Pieter  found  his  tongue. 


Oh,  will  you  deign,  Annette,"  said  he, 
To  take  a  Yuletide  gift  from  me?" 

[79] 


Annette,  without  a  thought  of  ill, 
Replied,  in  Dutch,  "Of  course  I  will!" 

Saint  Nicholas  with  reindeer  sleigh 

Had  made  his  rounds  and  gone  his  way, 

And  fair  Annette,  while  others  slept, 
On  tiptoe  down  the  stairway  crept 

Before  the  dawn,  her  only  thought 

To  see  what  gifts  the  Saint  had  brought. 

And  there  a  marvel  met  her  eyes! 
A  stocking,  not  of  common  size, 

But  six  feet  long  and  even  more 

Now  hung  where  hers  had  hung  before, 

Beneath  the  kitchen  mantel-shelf, 
And  snug  within  was  Piet  himself! 

The  situation  seemed  absurd; 
Annette,  however,  kept  her  word; 

That  is,  to  make  the  tale  complete, 
She  took  her  gift  and  married  Piet. 
[80] 


A  BRIDGE  SCANDAL 

UPON  the  table's  cloth  of  green 

The  Trey  of  Diamonds  lay; 
It  lured  the  Knave;    he  loved  the  Queen; 

For  her  he  took  the  Trey. 

To  him  the  Queen  "of  Diamonds  said, 
"Make  haste,  my  darling  Jack, 

And  fly  with  me!"     And  off  they  fled 
In  spite  of  all  the  Pack. 

The  King  pursued;    alert  and  quick, 
He  slew  them  with  his  mace! 

And  that's  the  way  he  turned  the  Trick, 
For  no  one  held  the  Ace! 


[81] 


HENRY  HUDSON'S  LOG 

WEE  anchored  safe  in  Fathoms  four 

Within  a  Baye,  and  did  espie 
A  pleasaunt,  many-peopled  Shore 

With  Lodges  most  amazing  hie, 

From  where  some  Natives,  partlie  tamed, 
Did  come  in  Shallops  nine  or  ten 

To  make  us  Speeches — these  were  named 
"Ye  Sons-in-Lawe  of  Famous  Men." 

Ashore  wee  went,  and  soon  a  Band 

Appeared,  bedecked  with  Silver  Starres, 

Which  called  themselves,  I  understand, 

"Ye  Sons  of  Them  Which  Fitt  in  Warres." 

Another  Tribe  did  entertaine 

Our  Tars  at  Meat  within  an  Halle, 

And  they  were  hight,  "Ye  Noble  Straine 
Of  Them  Which  Came  Here  First  of  Alle!" 
[82! 


Their  Womankind  in  Bevies  Twain 

Did  make  us  Cheere  with  Daunce  and  Song, 

But  eyther  Group  in  hie  Disdain 
Did  scorn  ye  other  Lovelie  Throng; 

Yea,  each  called  other,  "  Sycophants " 

And  "Upstarte  Crewe!" — Their  Rightful  Names 

Were  "Nieces  of  Ancestral  Aunts," 
And  "Daughters  of  Maternal  Dames." 

Ye  "Sons  of  Irish  Pioneers," 

Ye  "Native  Sons  of  Foreign  Kynges," 

Ye  "Sons  of  Hessian  Grenadiers," 
And  Sundrie  Sons  of  Other  Thynges 

About  us  raised  a  Goodlie  Stir. 

A  Modest  Folk  they  seemed  to  mee, 
More  Vaine  of  what  their  Fathers  were 

Than  Proud  of  what  theirselves  might  bee. 

Yet  more  were  there  too  Low  to  wear 
Grand  Coats-of-Arms  or  courtlie  Masks— 

An  Hoste  which  found  no  Time  to  spare 
But  stronglie  toiled  at  many  Tasks. 
[83] 


I  craved  of  One  of  Sturdie  Mold, 

"What  ' Sons'  bee  ye?"     With  Merrie  Face, 
"No  'Sons'!"  he  cried;  "in  us  behold 

Ye  Fathers  of  ye  Coming  Race!" 


[84] 


WHITE  MAGIC 

WHEN  tree-toads  trill  and  crickets  chirr 
And  all  the  marshlands  faintly  ring, 

A  Goblin  flits  through  plumes  of  fir 
Upon  the  wood-owl's  velvet  wing; 

He  fills  with  fern-seed,  brown  and  dry, 
His  acorn  pipe;    when  winds  are  whist 

He  lights  it  with  a  fire-fly — 
And  hillward  blows  the  evening  mist. 


A  PERSIAN  APOLOGUE 

To  Hakim  Ali,  famed  for  potent  pills, 
Old  Hassan  came  to  tell  his  body's  ills 

Began  the  Patient:     "First,  O  Hakim  wise, 
I  note  a  certain  dimness  of  the  eyes — " 

"A  trifle!"  laughed   the  Doctor;  "I'll  engage 
'Tis  merely  a  Concomitant  of  Age." 

"Besides,"  groaned  Hassan,  "as  it  seems  to  me, 
My  hearing  is  not  all  it  used  to  be." 

"Some  little  touch  of  deafness,"  quoth  the  Sage, 
"Is  likewise  a  Concomitant  of  Age." 

"But,"  quavered  Hassan,  "Doctor,  is  it  right 
That  Wakefulness  should  worry  me  at  night?" 

"Quite  natural,"  said  Ali,  "at  this  stage;— 
A  usual  Concomitant  of  Age." 
[861 


Then  Hassan  stormed:   "Oh, quack, impostor, dolt, 
With  no  more  learning  than  my  donkey's  colt! — 

"I  tell  my  griefs,  and,  like  a  parrot  gray, 
'Concomitant  of  Age*  is  all  you  say!" 

"Ah!"  smiled  the  Doctor;  "sudden,  causeless  rage 
Is  likewise  a  Concomitant  of  Age." 


TACT 

THE  Sultan  was  vexed  by  a  dream 

that  invaded  his  slumbers; 
(He'd  feasted  on  lobsters  and  cream 

with  half-ripened  cucumbers 
And  slept  with  his  head  to  the  South, 

so  the  Night  Mare  had  power.) 
He  dreamed,  all  the  teeth  of  his  mouth 

tumbled  out  in  a  shower! 
So,  calling  a  Sayer  of  Sooth 

to  interpret  the  vision, 
He  charged  him  to  utter  the  truth 

with  the  utmost  precision. 


"Pure  Fountain  of  Justice,  and  Fear 
of  the  Infidel  Foemen, 

The  vision,"  propounded  the  Seer, 

"is  of  sorrowful  omen; 
[88] 


For  Allah,  who  governs  this  ball 

(His  protection  be  o'er  you!), 

Decrees  that  your  relatives  all 

shall  drop  dead, right  before  you!" 


The  Sultan  leaped  up  in  a  fit 

of  devouring  fury! 
He  stayed  not  to  issue  a  writ 

or  impanel  a  jury, 
But— "Shorten  this  fellow !"  he  said, 

"and  be  rapid   about  it!" 
So  off  went  the  Soothsayer's  head! 

(He  looked  better  without  it.) 


One  Sage  being  worthless,  they  sent 

to  the  mosque  for  another; — 
An  Augur  of  wilier  bent 

than  his  ill-fortuned  brother. 
"Now  Allah  be  praised  for  the  boon!" 

cried  this  wisest  of  mages; 
"Great  Lord  of  the  Sun  and  the  Moon! 

for  the  vision  presages 


Long  life  to  the  King,  who  shall  thrive 

like  the  fertile  plantations! 

Yea,  truly!    my  Liege  shall  survive 

e'en  his  youngest  relations!" 

The  King,  as  his  visage  expressed, 

was  rejoiced  beyond  measure. 
The  Prophet  went  home  with  a  chest 

fairly  bursting  with  treasure. 
Which  proves — 'tis  an  axiom  still, 

let  the  Blunt-spoken  weigh  it- 
The  Tactful  can  say  what  he  will, 

for  he  knows  how  to  say  it! 


[90] 


FAME 

"GREAT  king,"  the  poet  cried,  his  rebec  stringing, 
"Thy  name  shall  live  forever — through  my  sing 
ing!" 

"Poor  fool,"  the  king  replied,  "that  lie  is  hoary; 
Thy   songs   may   live  —  because   they   chant   my 
glory!" 

So  each,  the  sword  or  lyre  glorifying, 

In  turn  proclaimed  his  work  alone  undying; 

And  while  their  wordy  warfare  shook  the  rafter, 
Old  Time  stood  by  and  held  his  sides  for  laughter! 


LOGIC 

THE  Farmer  was  swinging  his  scythe  with  a  will, 
His  Donkey  was  turning  the  primitive  mill; 

The  Learned  Logician  of  Lalli-Bazan 

Stood  watching  the  labors  of  Donkey  and  Man. 

"My  friend,"  quoth  the  Solver  of  Tangled  Affairs, 
"What  use  is  the  bell  that  your  Animal  wears?" 

"Why,"   answered   the  Farmer,   "it  tells  on  the 

Brute; 
It  rings  while  he  moves,  when  he  stops  it  is  mute; 

"And  so,  though  I'm  acres  away  at  my  work, 
I'll  know  if  the  gray-coated  Scamp  is  a  shirk." 

"Right  well!"  cried  the  Sage;  "but  supposing,  in 
stead 

Of  working,  your  Donkey  just  waggled  his  head: 
[92] 


"The  bell  would  still  ring  like  a  steeple  possessed, 
Yet  how  would  you  know  he  was  taking  a  rest?" 

The  Farmer  looked  hard  at  the  Sage  (it  appears 
Suspecting  the  length  of  his  logical  ears), 

Then  answered  him,  giving  his  Servant  a  slap, 
"  This  Donkey  has  never  learned  Logic! — Gid-dap!" 


93 


A  HINDU  RIDDLE 

"WHAT  fruit  is  good  to  taste  when  green, 
And  sweet  when  half-matured  by  Time, 
Yet  harsh  when  ripe?     Declare,  O  Sage!" 

"That  fruit  is  Human  Life,  I  ween: 
So  rich  in  Youth;    in  Manhood's  prime 
More  mellow  still — but  dry  in  Age!" 


[94] 


THE  IRREVERENT  BRAHMIN 

A   HINDU  TRACT 

A  BRAHMIN,  fat  and  debonair, 
Denied  the  Potency  of  Prayer! 

"Absurd!"  he  scoffed,  "to  say  that  Gods 
At  ease  on  high  would  stoop  to  Clods 

"And  heed  our  million  warring  Prayers 
To  regulate  our  small  Affairs!" 

This  Dogmatist  of  early  days 
Was  lost  within  a  jungle's  maze, 

Where,  wildly  ranging  wide  about 
To  find  a  pathway  leading  out, 

Upon  a  Forest  Codling's  Shrine 

He  chanced,  o'erhung  with  leaf  and  vine, 

[95] 


And — wonder!    horror! — crouching  there 
A  mighty  Tiger,  bowed  in  prayer! 

(Tail  curled,  as  may  be  well  supposed, 
Paws  folded,  eyes  devoutly  closed). 

"Strong  God,"  he  heard  the  Tiger  say, 
"I  pray  thee,  send  to  me  a  Prey!" 

The  trustful  Tiger  closed  his  Prayer. — 
Behold!    a  Brahmin  trembling  there! 

The  Brahmin  never  scoffed  a  whit. 
The  Prayer  had  Answer— #<?  was  It. 


[961 


BREAD 

(FROM  THE  HINDUSTANI) 

FOR  Bread  the  Merchant  labors  long  and  late. 
For  Bread  the  Beggar  goes  from  gate  to  gate. 

For  Bread  the  Sailor  loses  hearth  and  home; 
A  thousand  miles  away,  Bread-seekers  roam. 

For  Bread  the  Wild  Birds  fall  in  nets  and  gins. 
For  Bread  do  Men  commit  a  thousand  sins. 

For  Bread  the  Soldier  dies  in  siege  or  fray. 
For  Bread  the  Minstrel  carols,  night  and  day. 

For  Bread  Men  study  all  that  Man  may  know. 
The  House  that  wanteth  Bread  is  filled  with  Woe. 

'Tis  Bread  unites  the  Family  as  one; 
Its  lack  divides  the  Father  from  the  Son. 

For  Bread  are  Weddings  made  and  Sermons  said; 
Of  all  good  things,  the  very  best  is  Bread. 

[97] 


THE  STONE'S  JOKE 

ON  Guernsey's  Island,  huge,  alone, 
Before  a  cavern  lay  a  Stone; 

Upon  its  surface  carved,  a  screed 
In  characters  that  none  could  read. 

At  length  a  Stranger  climbed  the  cliff, 
A  Sage,  in  rune  and  hieroglyph 

Well  schooled.     He  bent  his  learned  head 
Above  the  Stone,  and  thus  he  read: 

"Come,  turn  me,  turn  me,  Man  of  Might, 
And  see  what  now  is  hid  from  sight!" 

They  came  with  lever,  jack,  and  chain; 

They  heaved  and  hauled  with  might  and  main; 

They  plied  the  mass  with  rope  and  crow 
To  find  the  Treasure  hid  below. 
[98] 


The  great  Stone  turned.     Its  mottled,  pied 
And  soil-discolored  under  side 

Another  runic  legend  bore; 

And  thus  the  Scholar  read  once  more: 

"O  Gentle  Friend,  for  many  a  year 
On  one  poor  side  I've  languished  here 

"And  begged  the  boon  for  which  I've  yearned — 
That  some  one  turn  me.     Thanks.     I'm  turned." 


[99] 


THE  BEST  AND  WORST  NAIL  IN  THE  ARK 

Now  this  is  the  story  (and  all  of  ye  hark!) 

Of  what  was   the   Best   and  Worst   Nail   in  the 

Ark: 

When  Noah  was  building  this  Ark,  as  ye  know, 
A  rumble  of  thunder  surprised  him,  and  so 
To  have  the  boat  ready  in  time  for  the  rain 
He  took  on  a  Wright  of.  the  Children  of  Cain — 
A  terrible  sinner,  like  all  of  the  rest, 
And  still,  as  a  Carpenter,  one  of  the  best. 

This  Person  was  hammering  hard  at  the  stem 
When    up    strolls    the    Patriarch,    Japheth,    and 

Shem; 

And  what  does  that  impudent  Carpenter  do 
But  ask  to  be  taken  as  one  of  the  crew. 
Sez  he,  "I  am  wishful  to  sail  in  yer  boat 
Along  with  yer  Elephant,  Camel,  and  Goat." 
But  Noah  he  answers  him,  "None  of  yer  jokes! 
Ye'll  stay  in  the  wet  with  the  rest  of  yer  folks!" 

[100] 


The  Carpenter  grinned  and  the  Carpenter  laughed; 
He  watched  till  the  Party  was  all  of  them  aft, 
Then  screwed  up  one  eyebrow  and  twisted  his  lip 
And  pulled  a  big  nail  from  the  bow  of  the  Ship! 
He  pulled  out  a  Nail,  did  that  Offspring  of  Sin, 
Which  left  a  fine  hole  for  the  tide  to  creep  in. 

Now,  up  comes  the  Animals,  marching  in  pairs, 
And  with  them  the  Devil  sneaks  in  unawares, — 
They  say  with  the  Mule,  for  she  hadn't  a  mate, — 
And  hides  in  the  hold  with  the  rest  of  the  freight. 
But  whist!  when  the  waters  were  boiling  around 
And  rocking  the  Ark  from  her  place  on  the 

ground, 

Old  Noah  stood  up  while  the  elements  roared 
And  asked  a  strong  Blessing  on  all  things  aboard. 

Now  Blessings,  for  cause  that  I  needn't  explain, 
Are  what  the  old  Devil  can't  hear  without  pain; 
And  so  the  poor  Devil  tore  wildly  about 
Prospecting  in  vain  for  a  place  to  get  out, 
When    what    should    he    spy,    when    of    reason 

bereft, 

But  that  one  fine  hole  that  the  Carpenter  left! 
[101] 


He  altered  his  form  to  the  shape  of  a  Worm 
And  right  through  that  nail-hole  he  tried  for  to 

squirm; 

But, — talk  as  they  do  of  the  Devil's  own  luck, — 
As  tight  as  a  rivet  the  poor  Devil  stuck! 
He  stuck  and  he  stayed  for  the  whole  of  the  trip 
Excluding  the  wet  from  the  hold  of  the  Ship. 
The  waters  might  heave  and  the  waters  might  roll, 
But  still  the  poor  Devil  kept  plugging  that  hole 
And  saving  them  all  from  the  wave  and  the  shark, — 
So  he  was  the  Best  and  Worst  Nail  in  the  Ark! 


[102] 


WHAT  THE  DEVIL  SAID  TO  NOAH 

THE  world  was  badly  scared; 

The  very  heavens  trembled; 
The  Ark  was  all  prepared, 

The  beasts  were  all  assembled 
And  driven  safe  within 

By  Noah's  sons  and  daughters, 
When  lo!    the  Lord  of  Sin 

Appeared  upon  the  waters; 
A  gallant  privateer, 

He  sailed  a  Malay  proa: 
"I  think  it's  gwine  to  clear!" 

The  Devil  said  to  Noah. 

We  know  that  things  are  wrong, 
We  strive  to  make  them  better; 

Perhaps  I  write  a  song, 
Perhaps  you  write  a  letter, 

Perhaps  we  work  like  men 

To  push  a  worthy  movement — 
8  [  103  ] 


When  up  he  pops  again, 
That  Foe  to  All  Improvement, 

And,  smiling  on  the  Deer 
(But  winking  at  the  Boa) — 

"Aw,  shucks!    it's  gwine  to  clear!" 
The  Devil  coos  to  Noah. 


104] 


MIDNIGHT  ALPHABET 

A  is  the  Amiable  Actress, 

The  lobster-cafe's  benefactress. 

B  is  the  Bibulous  Bounder 
Who  likes  to  be  classed  as  a  rounder. 

C  is  the  Curious  Corkscrew — 
The  favorite  tool  of  New  York's  crew. 

D  is  the  Diligent  Driver 
Who  will  not  take  less  than  a  fiver. 

E  is  the  Erring  Elmiran 
About  to  be  fleeced  by  a  siren. 

F  is  the  Fellow  from  Corning 
Who  will  not  go  home  until  morning. 

G  is  the  Gimlet-eyed  Gambler 

In  wait  for  the  night-blooming  rambler. 

[105] 


H  is  the  Hefty  Housebreaker 

Disguised  as  a  peaceable  Quaker. 

I  is  the  'igh-C  Italian, 

With  hair  a  la  Richard  Le  Gallienne; 

J  is  the  Jollification 

His  boosters  will  term  "an  Ovation." 

K  is  a  Kelt  from  Killarney 

Who  borrows  a  dollar  on  blarney. 

L  is  the  Lantern-jawed  Loafer 

Whom   Croesus  addresses  as   "Shoafer!" 

M  is  the  Moonbeam  so  Mellow 

That  shines  on  the  girl  and  her  fellow. 

N  is  the  Nebulous  Night-time 

By  true  lovers  hailed  as  the  right  time. 

O  is  the  One  Osculation 

That  earns  them  the  prude's  reprobation. 
[106! 


P  is  the  Penitent's  Pillow 
That  feels  like  a  hot  armadillo; 

Q  is  his  Querulous  Query, 

"Oh,  why  did  I  gamble  in  Erie?" 

R  is  the  Rabid  Reporter 

Whose  story  was  edited  shorter. 

S  is  the  Sinful  Suggestion 

That  slumber  is  out  of  the  question. 

T's  for  the  Turbulent  Taxis 

That  swiftly  rotate  on  their  axes. 

U  is  the  Uniformed   Usher 
Ejecting  the  lingering  lusher. 

V  is  the  Voice  of  the  Victim 

Condemning  the  caitiff  who  kicked  him. 

W  stands  for  the  White  Way— 

The  Tight  Way,  yet  scarce  the  Polite  Way. 


X  is  the  sum  that  Xpresses 
The  fine  for  Xtatic  Xcesses. 

Y  is  the  Yelling  of  Yellows 

By  newsboys  with  lungs  that  are  bellows. 

Z  is  the  Zebra  so  frisky 

Evoked  by  libations  of  whisky. 


[108 


MAINLY    FEMININE 


THIS  IS  SHE 

ON  order  that  must  be  obeyed 
I  sing  of  a  dear  little  maid; 

A  mirthfully  serious, 

Sober,  delirious, 

Gently  imperious 
Maid. 

And  first  we'll  consider  her  eyes 
(Alike  as  to  color  and  size); 

Her  winkable,  blinkable, 

Merrily  twinkable, 

Simply  unthinkable 
Eyes. 

Then,  having  a  moment  to  spare, 
We  turn  our  attention  to  hair; 
Her  tendrilly-curlative, 
Tumbly-and-whirlative, 
Super-superlative 
Hair. 

[ml 


Forbear  to  dismiss  with  a  shrug 
Her  nose,  undeniably  pug; — 

Her  strictly  permissible, 

Turn-up-like-thisable, 

Urgently  kissable 
Pug. 

Now,  moving  a  point  to  the  south, 
We  come  to  an  Actual  Mouth; 

A  coral,  pearliferous, 

Argumentiferous, 

Mainly  melliferous 
Mouth. 

Observe,  underneath  it,  a  chin, 
Connoting  the  dimple  within; 

A  steady,  reliable, 

Hardly  defiable, 

True,  undeniable 
Chin. 

By  all  that  is  fair!    it  appears 
We'd  almost  forgotten  her  ears! 

[H2] 


Those  never  neglectable, 
Tinted,  delectable, 
Highly  respectable 
Ears! 

And  last  let  us  speak  of  herself, 
That  blithe  little  gipsy  and  elf, 

Her  quite  unignorable, 

Absence-deplorable, 

Wholly  adorable 
Self. 


THE  LASSES  O'  LINTON 

THE  lasses  o'  Linton  ha'  flocked  to  the  fair, 
Wi'  gowd  on  their  bosoms  an'  silk  in  their  hair, 
Wi'   ribbons  an'  laces  sae  winsomely  drest, 
An'  each  in  the  color  that  fits  her  the  best. 

There's  Meg,  the  fause  jilt!    wi'  her  eyes  on  the 

groun' — 

Ye'll  ne'er  fin'  a  heart  'neath  the  corn-yellow  gown. 
While  Maisie,  whose  Robin  proves  faithless,  puir 

lass! 
Comes  clad  in  a  kirtle  as  green  as  the  grass. 

But  Jeanie,  my  Jeanie,  beloved  an'  true, 
S'all  never  wear  aught  save  the  heaven's  ain  blue; 
"For  green  is  forsaken,  an'  yellow's  forsworn, 
But  blue  is  the  bonniest  color  that's  worn." 


FASHION 

FAIR  Eve  devised  a  walking-suit 
Of  jungle  grasses,  soft  and  crimpy; 

She  thought  it  rather  neat  and  cute 
Till  Adam  grunted,  "Pretty  skimpy!" 

A  cloak  of  palm-leaves,  sought  for  miles, 
She  made,  and  came  to  be  admired; 

But  Adam  said,  "The  silly  styles 

You  women  wear  just  make  me  tired!" 

She  built  herself  a  little  hat 
Of  lilies  (Eve  was  very  clever), 

And  asked  him  what  he  thought  of  that? 
And  Adam  blurted,  "Well,  I  never!" 

So  next  she  placed  upon  her  head 
A  feathered  three-by-four  Creation. — 

The  little  word  that  Adam  said 
Is  barred  from  parlor  conversation. 
[US) 


Yet  Eve  refused  to  be  a  dowd, 
And  tied  an  autumn-tinted  sash  on. 

"I'll  dress  to  please  myself!"  she  vowed, 
"For  what  does  Adam  know  of  fashion? 

"What  use  to  seek  applause  from  him? 

He  scoffs  and  says  I  cannot  reason! 
Well,  then,  my  law  shall  be  my  whim — 

And  that  shall  change  with  every  season." 

Since  when,  revolving  cycles  bring 
The  gayest  fashions  and  the  queerest; 

And  Eve  declares,  "It's  just  the  thing!" 
While  Adam  murmurs,  "Is  it,  dearest?" 


[n6J 


THE  WIND  MAIDEN 

HER  lips,  like  roses  empearled, 
Gave  forth  a  rill  of  laughter; 

She  brought  the  joy  of  the  world — 
Of  this  and  that  hereafter. 

So  free  that  magical  art 
Alone  would  serve  to  bind  her, 

She  danced  right  into  my  heart 
And  locked  the  door  behind  her! 


A  SKETCH  FROM  THE  LIFE 

ITS  eyes  are  gray; 

Its  hair  is  either  brown 

Or  black; 
And,  strange  to  say, 

Its  dresses  button  down 
The  back! 

It  wears  a  plume 

That  loves  to  frisk  around 

My  ear. 
It  crowds  the  room 

With  cushions  in   a  mound 
And  queer 

Old  rugs  and  lamps 

In  corners  a  la  Turque 

And  things. 
It  steals  my  stamps, 

And  when  I  want  to  work 
It  sings! 


It  rides  and  skates — 

But  then  it  comes  and  fills 

My  walls 
With  plaques  and  plates 

And  keeps  me  paying  bills 
And  calls. 

It's  firm;   and  if 

I  should  my  many  woes 

Deplore, 
'Twould  only  sniff 

And  perk  its  little  nose 
Some  more. 

It's  bright,  though  small; 

Its  name,  you  may  have  guessed, 

Is  "Wife." 
But,  after  all, 

It  gives  a  wondrous  zest 
To  life! 


119] 


A  WHOLE  DAY! 

FIVE  hundred  thousand  leagues,  I  guess, 

Our  weary  Earth  has  bowled  through  space; 

And  fifty  thousand  miles,  no  less, 
The  pallid  Moon  has  held  her  race; 

The  careful  Clock  has  ticked  away 

Full  eighty  thousand  moments  drear; — 

So  long  has  been  the  lagging  Day 
Since  last  I  saw  you,  Vida  dear! 


[120] 


ONE  FEATHER 

HER  sister  brought  the  wife  a  feather — 
A  curled,  Parisian  thing  of  beauty 

(And  Uncle  Sam  may  answer  whether 
He  did  or  did  not  get  the  duty). 

The  feather  had  to  have  a  hat 
To  wreathe  itself  upon,  I  take  it; 

For  twenty  dollars  (cheap  at  that!) 

Madame  O'Malley  deigned  to  make  it. 

So  fine  a  hat  is  simply  lost 
Without  a  proper  coat  below  it. 

The  coat,  with  all  its  fixings,  cost 
Say,  ninety  more — at  least  I  owe  it. 

The  coat  was  scarcely  warm  enough — 
(A  stylish  cloth  is  rarely  weighty); 

But,  after  all,  the  stole  and  muff 
Were  hardly  very  dear  at  eighty. 
[121] 


And  then  a  gown  and  shoes  and  things — 
Here!    add    the  bills,  ye  household  scholars! 

That  little  feather  plumed  the  wings 
Of  pretty  near  three  hundred  dollars! 

A  straw  may  break  the  camel's  back; 

How  might  a  feather  overtax  him! 
I  never  knew  before,  alack, 

The  truth  within  that  shop-worn  maxim! 

Yet,  oh,  for  all  this  traitor  writes, 
The  wealth  of  all  the  stores  together 

Was  never  worth  one  smile  that  lights 
The  dimpling  face  beneath  the  feather! 


122] 


THE  COUNTRY  DANCE 

TREAD  of  the  thistledown 

Lighting  on  heather, — 
Curls  in  a  dancing  crown 

Bursting  their  tether, — 
Laugh  of  a  bobolink 

Swaying  on  rushes, — 
Breath  of  the  meadow-pink 

Born  of  her  blushes, — 
Free  as  a  swallow  dips, 

Moving  to  viol-tones, 
Over  the  mead  she  trips, 

Men's  hearts  her  stepping-stones. 


THE   ORGAN-GRINDER   LADY   AND   THE 
SCISSORS-GRINDER  MAN 

HER  cheeks  were  Roman  roses,  and  her  deep, 
Italian  eyes 

Were  dark  as  limpid  Como  when  the  moon  be 
gins  to  rise; 

A  crimson  'kerchief  crowned  the  silken  midnight 
of  her  hair; 

Her  buxom  little  bodice  was  a  heart-alluring 
snare; 

A  laughing  little,  daffing  little,  merry  gipsy  queen, 

She  challenged  forth  your  pennies  with  her  tin 
kling  tambourine. 

What  pocketbook  resisted  when  her  organ  sang 
the  woe 

Of  Marguerite  or  Lucia,  or  the  fun  of  Figaro! 

What  pulse  but  leaped  the  faster  at  the  strains 
of  "Pinafore" 

And  swinging,  Old  World  waltzes  that  the  ball 
room  hears  no  more! 

[124] 


So,  hailed  by  children's  laughter  and  the  pat  of 

childish  feet, 
The   Organ-Grinder   Lady   came   in   music   down 

the  street. 

With  trundle-wheel  and  trumpet  and  the  clamor 
of  his  clan, 

Along  the  flinty  pavement  came  the  Scissors- 
Grinder  Man, — 

A  yellow-headed  laddie,  and  his  cheeks  were  as 
the  wine, 

His  eyes  as  blue  and  dancing  as  the  water  of  the 
Rhine. 

He  trolled  a  Saxon  ballad  as  he  ground  the  shear 
ing  steel, 

Delighting  gaping  urchins  with  the  sparkles  of 
the  wheel; 

And  pleasantly  and  mirthfully  he  bobbed  his 
head,  to  greet 

The  Organ-Grinder  Lady  as  she  halted  in  the  street; 

Then,  since  there's  lack  of  honesty  in  being  over- 
prim, 

That  Organ-Grinder  Lady  nodded  blithely  back 
at  him. 


He  set  his  wheel  a-humming,  by  the  way  of  sere 
nade; 

She  let  her  organ  answer  —  and  the  "Wedding 
March"  it  played! 

Belike  a  roll  of  magic  ran  around  the  music-reel; 
Perchance    the    dainty    bodice    caught    a    sparkle 

from  the  wheel; 
For,   when   the  streets  were   twinkling  with   the 

lights  of  eventide, 
The  organ   and   the   trundle-wheel   rolled   slowly, 

side  by  side, 
Until,  along  the  river  where  the  great  ships  come 

to  land, 
The  Lady  and  the  Laddie  watched  the  starlight, 

hand  in  hand. 
And    now    in    wedding-jacket    and    a    black    and 

scarlet  gown, 
They   trudge   their  rounds  together  through   the 

mazes  of  the  town. 
She  makes  his  toil  the  lighter  with  the  organ's 

mellow  peal; 
He  makes  the  street  the  brighter  with  the  sparkles 

of  the  wheel; 

[!26] 


And  thus  they  give  each  other  and  their  world 

the  best  they  can — 
The  Organ-Grinder  Lady  and  the  Scissors-Grinder 

Man. 


A  GREEK  SONG 

IT  was  not  I  that  dared  betray 

What  none  should  know  but  you  and  me; 
The  moon  beheld  from  heaven's  way 

And  told  the  tale  to  all  the  sea. 

The  ripples  laughed  in  elvish  joy 

And  told  the  oar-blade,  water-pearled; 

The  oar-blade  told  the  fisher-boy, 
Who  sang  our  love  to  all  the  world! 


THE  GROCERY  BOY 

Now  what  should  I  do  when  the  Grocery  Boy 
Is  knockin'  an*  whistlin'  an5  calling  "Ahoy!" 
An'  me  with  both  hands  of  me  covered  with  suds 
A-cleanin'  the  panes  in  me  oldest  of  duds! 
"  Come  down !"  sez  he,  laughin'.    Sez  I, "  Ye  can  wait ! 
An*  what  are  ye  meanin'  by  comin'  so  late?" 
"Ah,  come!"  sez  he,  coaxin';  "I  tell  ye  no  lies, 
But  all  the  pertaties  have  tears  in  their  eyes 
Because  of  the  coldness  of  maids  in  these  parts. 
The  onions  are  breakin*  their  poor  little  hearts; 
The  beans  an'  the  leeks  an'  the  parsley  are  green 
With  longin'  for  some  one — ye  know  whom  I  mean; 
An'  see  the  young  radishes  blushin'  all  red, 
An'  look  how  the  cabbage  is  hangin'  its  head! 
Then  don't  ye  be  haughty  an'  don't  ye  be  cruel, 
But  open  the  gate,  now,  an'  take  them,  me  jewel!" 

Now  what  would  ye  do  with  a  saucy  young  limb 
Of  a  Grocery  Boy  that  can  blarney  like  him? 


A  SONG  FOR  SILVIUS 

THE  Pleiads  are  six  and  the  planets  are  eight, 
But  one  little  star  is  the  Pole  of  my  fate. 

Five  continents  broaden  and  seven  seas  foam, 
But  only  one  spot  in  creation  is  Home. 

The  Graces  are  three,  while  the  Muses  are  nine; 
There's  only  one  Phoebe,  and  Phoebe  is  mine! 


THE  PASSIONATE  SUBURBANITE 
TO  HIS  LOVE 

COMMUTE  with  me,  Love,  and  be  merry; 

How  vain  in  the  City  to  dwell 
When  apple-trees  blow  in  Dobbs'  Ferry 

And  lilacs  adorn  New  Rochelle! 
White  Plains  is  the  Garden  of  Allah 

And  Pelham's  the  Pearl  of  the  Sea; 
There's  bliss  in  the  name  of  Valhalla — 

Oh,  fly  to  the  Suburbs  with  me! 

Then  won't  you  commute  on  my  family  ticket? 
To  Westchester  County  we'll  flee. 

Delightful  Westchester, 

What  place  is  sequester! 
Oh,  won't  you  commute,  Love,  with  me? 

I'll  pluck  you  the  earliest  crocus 

In  Orange  or  Englewood  fair; 
We'll  sport  on  the  meads  of  Hohokus, 

We'll  ramble  through  Cultured  Montclair; 
[131] 


We'll  rest  in  Exclusive  Tuxedo, 

Or  Nutley,  for  artists  renowned, 
And  still  shall  I  carol  my  credo, 

"The  Suburbs  are  Paradise  Found." 

Then  won't  you  commute  on  my  family  ticket? 
Perhaps  you  prefer  New  Jersee', 

For  who  could  grow  weary 

Of  life  on  the  Erie! 
Then  won't  you  commute,  Love,  with  me? 

The  Isle  'twixt  the  Sound  and  the  Ocean — 

Ah,  has  it  no  Message  for  you? 
I  cannot  but  think  with  emotion 

Of  Flushing,  Jamaica,   and   Kew, 
Of  Bayshore  of  youthful  vacations, 

Of  Little  Neck,  Great  Neck,  and  Quogue 
And  all  of  the  other  Clam  Stations 

Including  Speonk  and  Patchogue. 

Then  come  take  a  trip  on  my  family  ticket 
Where  Long  Island  breezes  blow  free. 

To  live  on  the  Subway 

Is  surely  a  dub  way, — 
Then  fly  to  the  Suburbs  with  me! 


OUR  SUBURB 

OUR  Garden  Spot  is  always  bright  and  pretty 

(Of  course  it's  rather  soggy  when  it  rains), 
And  only  thirty  minutes  from  the  city 

(Of    course    you    have    to    catch    the    proper 

trains). 

We're   through   with   Grasping   Landlords,    rents, 
and  leases 

(Of   course    there's    still    a    mortgage    debt    to 

pay). 
At  last  we  know  what  True  Domestic  Peace  is 

(Of  course  you  can't  compel  a  cook  to  stay). 
Our  Little  Home  is  always  nice  and  cozy 

(Of  course  the  furnace  needs  a  lot  of  care). 
The  country  keeps  the  children  fresh  and  rosy 

(Of  course  the  schools  are  only  middling  fair). 
The  Country  Club  is  glorious  on  Sunday 

(Of  course  it's  overcrowded  now  and   then). 
We  see  a  play  on  Broadway  every  Monday 

(Of  course  we  have  to  leave  at  half  past  ten). 


It's  lovely  having  grass  and  trees  and  flowers 
(Of  course,  at  times,  mosquitoes  are  a  pest), 

Yes,  life  is  life  out  here  in  Rangeley  Towers 
(Of  course  Some  People  like  the  city  best)! 


[134] 


LOVERS'  LANE 

IT  goes  beneath  a  checkered  arch 
Of  leaf  and  sunlight,  oak  and  larch; 
Athwart  a  mead  of  meadow-sweet, 
A  field  of  lily-bordered  wheat; 
Through  groves  of  bridal  birch  it  turns, 
And  mossy  hollows,  deep  in  ferns; 
Then  up  a  hill  and  down  a  glen, 
From  Nowhere  out  and  back  again; 
And  many  feet  have  worn  it  plain — 
That  errant  way  of  Lovers'  Lane. 

There,  unafraid,  the  wood-folk  play; 
There  wanton  briers  dip  and  sway 
To  catch  and  keep  whatever  comes 
And  make  much  work  for  clumsy  thumbs 
Of  loosing  tress  and  lacing  shoe — 
Such  tasks  as  lovers  love  to  do. 
Of  tales  there  told  with  eye  or  tongue 
I  need  not  tell — if  ye  were  young — 
10  [135] 


Nor  yet  of  castles  reared  in  Spain 
By  architects  of  Lovers'  Lane. 

If  Lovers'  Lane  ye  wander  through, 
That  roadway's  rule  is  "two  by  two," 
Although  the  path  is  wondrous  strait; 
For  here's  a  hedge,  and  there's  a  gate, 
A  brook,  a  stile,  a  quaking  moss, 
The  strong  must  help  the  weak  to  cross; 
Then,  deep  in  shade  ere  set  of  sun, 
Its  dells  are  never  safe  for  one — 
Still  (must  the  sorry  truth  be  known?) 
In  Lovers'  Lane  I  walk  alone! 


TWIST-RHYME  ON  WOMEN 

SOME  women  walk  in  hobble  skirts 
While  others  sew  and  cobble  shirts. 

Equipped  with  pan  for  cake,  and  book, 
The  prudent  learn  to  bake  and  cook; 

Though  many,  seaward  hurling  care, 
Devote  their  time  to  curling  hair. 

Yet  all,  though  coyly  seeming  chill, 
For  simple  youths  are  scheming  ill; 

With  every  eye-glance  mangling  ten, 
They  weave  their  webs  for  tangling  men. 


[137] 


A  VALENTINE 

BEFORE  your  gate  from  dawn  to  late 

The  cheery  postman  whistles; 
And  every  mail  augments  the  tale 

Of  amorous  epistles 

That  jingle  "heart"  with  "part"  and  "dart,5 

Nor  fail  to  mention  Cupid; 
That  rhyme  "above"  and  "love"  and  "dove3 

And  other  things  as  stupid. 

I  pray  you,  spurn  those  lines  that  burn, 

Despite  their  foolish  pleading. 
To  flame  consign  each  Valentine — 

Except  the  one  you're  reading. 

And  scorn  the  host  that  sent  per  post 
Those  missives,  poor  and  shoddy. 

"They  love  you,  too?" — Of  course  they  do! 
For  so  does  everybody! 


But,  just  as  sure  as  snows  are  pure 
And  shoes  are  made  of  leather, 

I  do  adore  and  love  you  more 
Than  all  the  rest  together! 


139 


A  BILL  FROM  CUPID 

THIS  Day  of  good  Saint  Valentine, 
Chateau  de  Psyche, 

Spain. 

Miss  Arabella  Lovibond,  600  Lovers'  Lane, 
For  Merchandise  detailed  below,  to  Daniel  Cupid, 

Debtor: 
To  7,000  Compliments,  conveyed  per  Tongue  or 

Letter; 

To  50  Cases  Deathless  Love,  expressed  per  Burn 
ing  Sighs; 
To  20  Cases  (like  above),  expressed  per  Melting 

Eyes; 
To  1 8  dozen  Fervent  Vows,  despatched  per  mail 

or  spoken; 

To  1 8  dozen  Flaming  Hearts,  irreparably  broken; 
To    Passage    6    Despairing    Swains    en    route    to 

Foreign  Parts; 
To  14  Arrows,  snapped  and  spoiled  on  14  Flinty 

Hearts; 


To    15    Locks    of   Human    Hair    (black,    yellow, 

brown,  and  sandy); 

To  37  hundredweight  of  Tributary  Candy; 
To  40  Rides  in  Runabouts  and  90  Auto  Spins; 
To  8  Disused  Engagement  Rings  and  19  College 

Pins; 

To  60  Bales  of  Violets  and  Roses  (out  of  season) ; — 
Oh,  well,  for  these  and  other  things  beyond   all 

Rhyme  and  Reason, 
Please  pay,  to  Francis  Happychap,  my  Agent,  on 

Demand, 
In  Settlement  of  Claims,  in  full:    I  Vow,  I  Heart, 

I  Hand. 


[141] 


THE  RAG  DOLLY'S  VALENTINE 

THOUGH  others  think  I  stare  with  eyes  unseeing, 
I've  loved  you,  Mistress  mine,  so  dear  to  me, 
With  all  my  fervent  rag-and-sawdust  being 
Since  first   you    took   me   from   the   Christmas 

Tree. 
I  love  you  though  my  only  frock  you  tear  ofF; 

I  love  you  though  you  smear  my  face  at  meals; 
I   love  you   though   you've  washed   my   painted 

hair  off; 

I  love  you  when  you  drag  me  by  the  heels; 
I  love  you  though  you've  sewed  three  buttons  on 

me, 
But  most  I  love  you  when  you  sit  upon  me. 

No  jealous  pang  shall  mar  my  pure  affection; 
For,  while  'tis  true  your  heart  I'm  forced  to 

share 

With  that  Wax  Doll  of  pink-and-white  complexion, 

The  Pussy  Cat,  the  Lamb  and  Teddy  Bear, 

[142] 


'Tis  mine  alone,  whate'er  the  time  or  place  is> 
To  know  your  every  grief  and  each  delight; 

I  feel  your  childish  wrath  and  warm  embraces, 
I  share  your  little  pillow  every  night. 

And  so,  without  another  why  or  whether, 

I'll  love  you  while  my  stitches  hold  together! 


[143] 


ARCHITECTURAL 

FM  only  a  Gargoyle  attached  to  a  church, 
As  ugly  a  Gargoyle  as  ever  was  known; 

I  lean  from  my  Gothic,  aerial  perch 
To  gaze  on  that  glorious  vision  in  stone, — 

The  fair  Caryatid  just  over  the  street 
Enthroned  on  a  pillar  of  porphyry  red, 

So  mild  of  demeanor,  so  patient  and  sweet, 
Though  seventeen  stories  are  heaped  on  her  head ! 

I  envy  the  wind  that  may  speak  to  my  love, 
The  raindrop  that  plashes  her  cheek  like  a  tear, 

The  cobweb  that  covers  her  hand  like  a  glove, 
The  sparrow  that  builds  in  the  curve  of  her  ear. 

I  would  I  might  woo  her  with  passionate  rhymes; 

But  here  is  my  duty,  and  here  must  I  stay 
To  guard  the  high  steeple's  reverberant  chimes 

And  frighten  all  frolicsome  goblins  away. 

[144] 


A  BOY  AND  A  PUP 

THE  Boy  wears  a  grin, 
A  scratch  on  his  chin, 
A  wind-rumpled  thatch, 
A  visible  patch, 
A  cheek  like  a  rose, 
A  frecklesome  nose. 

The  Pup,  though  he  may 
Be  tawny  as  hay, 
Is  blithe  as  a  song; 
He  gambols  along 
And  waves  to  each  friend 
A  wagglesome  end. 

With  whistle  and  bark 
They're  off  for  a  lark; 
According  to  whim, 
A  hunt  or  a  swim, 
A  tramp  or  a  run 
Or  any  old  fun. 

[us] 


They  don't  care  a  jot 
If  school  keeps  or  not, 
When  anything' s  up, 
The  Boy  and  the  Pup,- 
That  duo  of  joy, 
A  Pup  and  a  Boy! 


[146] 


ON  CHERUBS 

TRUE  Cherubs  never  run  in  Debt 
Because  of  Clothes  and  Things, 

For,  like  some  Chickens  I  have  met, 
They're  built  of  Heads  and  Wings. 

And  Scientific  Pens  and  Tongues 

Have  made  it  very  clear 
That  Cherubs,  since  they  can't  have  Lungs 

Must  always  Sing  by  Ear. 

But  none  of  them,  'tis  understood, 

Will  play  a  Naughty  Prank; 
And  this  is  good,  because  they  would 

Be  Difficult  to  Spank. 


CHUMS 

You  see,  we  three, 
Fred,  Joe,  and  me, 

Is  chums. 
When  I  "hullo!" 
To  Fred  and  Joe 

They  comes. 

'Most  every  day 
We  go  and  play 

Somewheres. 
If  I've  a  bun 
And  they  has  none, 

We  shares. 

We  all  can  slide; 
And  Fred  can  ride 

And  swim, 
And  make  a  kite! 
I  think  a  sight 

Of  him, 
[148] 


And  Joey,  too; — 
He  helps  us  do 

Our  sums; 
Because,  you  see, 
Joe,  Fred,  and  me 

Is  chums. 


149 


A  STRIKE  IN  FAIRYLAND 

THERE'S  terrible  trouble  in  Fairyland, 

I  hear  from  a  humming-bird  fresh  from  the  border, 

The  impudent  sprites  of  that  airy  strand 
Refusing  to  follow  the  good  old  order. 

The  elves  have  deserted  both  field  and  glade — 
"So  tired  of  tending  the  thankless  flowers!" 

The  gnomes  have  abandoned  the  pick  and  spade, 
Demanding  more  wages  and  shorter  hours. 

The  nixes  and  mermaids  have  swum  ashore; — 
"The  waters  are  damp,  chill,  and  uninviting." 

The  witches  will  dwell  in  the  woods  no  more; 
Apartments  they  want,  with  electric  lighting. 

The  monarchs  are  throwing  their  scepters  down; — 
"It's  wearisome  work, — this  eternal  reigning!" 

The  queens  push  their  honey  aside,  and  frown, 
And  all  through  the  palaces  there's  complaining. 

[150] 


The  royal-born  youths  of  the  golden  clime 
Play  football  and  hockey,  and  each  professes 

The  utmost  aversion  to  wasting  time 
In  rescuing  maidens  with  golden  tresses. 

And  the  maidens  deplorable  taste  evince; 

Her  nose  in  the  air,  each  vows,  defiant, 
That  sooner  than  mate  with  a  stupid  prince 

She'd  marry  an  ogre  or  lovely  giant! 

While  the  dragon  roars  from  his  gloomy  hall 
(And,  oh,  it  isn't  a  theme  for  laughter!): 

"I've  swallowed  the  princess,  crown  and  all, 
And  I'm  to  "live  happily  ever  after.'" 


ii  [151] 


HOUSE  BLESSING 

STAND  firm,  gray  Rock! 

Tough-weathered  Beams,  hold  fast! 
Stanch  Walls,  proud  Roof, 

Repel  the  warring  Blast! 
Glow  warm,  deep  Hearth, 

Against  the  Winter's  Chill; 
Clear  Flame  of  Love, 

Burn  brighter,  warmer  still! 


152] 


CLEVER    ANIMALS 


WHY  TIGERS  CANT  CLIMB 

THE  tale  is  of  the  Tiger  and  his  Aunt,  who  is  the 

Cat: 
They  dwelt  among  the  jungles  in  the  shade  of 

Ararat. 

The  Cat  was  very  clever,  but  the  Tiger,  he  was  slow; 
He   couldn't    catch    the   Nilghau   nor   the   heavy 

Buffalo; 
His  claws  were  long  and  pointed,  but  his  wit  was 

short  and  blunt; 
He  begged  his  Wise  Relation  to  instruct  him  how 

to  hunt. 

The  Cat  on  velvet  pattens  stole  along  the  quiet  hill: 

"Now  this,"  she  whispered,  "Nephew,  is  the  way 
to  stalk  your  Kill." 

The  Cat  drew  up  her  haunches  on  the  mossy  for 
est  couch: 

"And  this,"  she  said,  "my  Nephew,  is  the  proper 
way  to  crouch." 


She  hurtled   through   the  shadows   like  a   missile 

from  a  sling: 
"And  that,  my  loving  Nephew,  is  the  only  way 

to  spring!" 


Oh,  hungry  was  the  Nephew,  and  the  Aunt  was 
sleek  and  plump; 

The  Tiger  at  his  Teacher  made  his  first  appren 
tice  Jump; 

He  did  it  very  ably,  but  the  Cat,  more  quick 
than  he, 

Escaped  his  clutching  talons  and  ran  up  a  cedar- 
tree, 

And  purred  upon  the  Snarler  from  the  bough  on 
which  she  sat, 

"How  glad  I  am,  my  Nephew,  that  I  didn't  teach 
you  that!" 

And,  since  that  Curtailed  Lesson  in  the  Rudiments 
of  Crime, 

The  most  ambitious  Tiger  hasn't  learned  the 
way  to  climb. 


156] 


PIGEON  ENGLISH 

WHERE  beeches  shade  the  pasture  gate, 

When  nights  grow  short  and  days  grow  long, 

The  wood-dove  woos  his  modest  mate, 
And  this  is  all  his  wooing  song: 

"  Curr-a-hoo,  curr-a-hoo ! 

You  love  me  and  I  love  you." 

But  wedded  life  is  full  of  care. 

Through  all  the  sunny  afternoon 
They  vainly  strive,  that  shiftless  pair, 

To  build  their  nest,  while  thus  they  croon: 

"Coo-pe-coo!     Coo-pe-coo! 
Two  sticks  across,  and  a  little  bit  of  moss, 
And  that  will  have  to  do,  do,  do!" 

When  last  I  wandered  down  the  lane 
The  little  mother,  all  intent 

[157] 


To  feed  her  greedy  nestlings  twain, 
Was  pouring  forth  a  sad  lament: 

"Coo-a-roo!    What  shall  I  do? 
I  cannot  feed  my  hungry  Two, 
Though  the  little  red  Wren 
Can  bring  up  ten 
And  rear  them  all  like  gentlemen!" 


THE   MINA-BIRD 

THERE  lives  a  little  Mina  on  the  hills  of  Hindustan, 
The  most  conceited  Mina  of  his  most  conceited  clan. 

A  cowry-shell  he  treasures,  for   a  cowry  may  be 

spent 
As  money; — in  the  market  it's  a  hundredth  of  a  cent. 

"I'm  rich!"  the  Mina  caroled  just  as  loud  as  he 

could  sing; 
"I'm  richer  than  the  Rajah!"     (And  a  Rajah  is 

a  king!) 

The  Rajah  was  offended  by  this  most  insulting  lay; 
He  ordered  out  his  Army  and  they  took  the  shell 
away. 

"The  Rajah  must  be  hungry!"  sang  the  Mina; 

"don't  you  see? 

The  Rajah  took  my  cowry,  for  the  Rajah  envied  me !" 
[159] 


The  Rajah  wasn't  ready  for  this  method  of  attack; 
He  disciplined  his  Army  and  they  gave  the  cowry 
back. 

"I'm  greater,"  sang  the  Mina,  ''than  the  mightiest 

of  men! 
I  forced  the  haughty  Rajah  to  restore  my  wealth 

again!" 

The  Rajah  sat  and  pondered  on  his  gold-incrusted 

throne: 
"I  think,"  said   he,  "my  Councilors,  we'll  leave 

that  Bird  alone. 

"He's   rather   prone  to  boastfulness,  his  voice   is 

void  of  charm, 
He  lacks  a  Sense  of  Humor,  but  he  can't  do  any 

harm." 

So  still  the  Mina  magnifies  his  grandeur  every 
where; 

Which  makes  him  very  happy — and  the  Rajah 
doesn't  care. 


1 60 


THE  CARDINAL-BIRD 

WHERE  snow-drifts  are  deepest  he  frolics  along, 
A  flicker  of  crimson,  a  chirrup  of  song, 
My  Cardinal-Bird  of  the  frost-powdered  wing, 
Composing  new  lyrics  to  whistle  in  Spring. 

A  plump  little  prelate,  the  park  is  his  church; 
The  pulpit  he  loves  is  a  cliff-sheltered  birch; 
And  there,  in  his  rubicund  livery  dressed, 
Arranging  his  feathers  and  ruffling  his  crest, 

He  preaches,  with  most  unconventional  glee, 
A  sermon  addressed  to  the  squirrels  and  me, 
Commending  the  wisdom  of  those  that  display 
The  brightest  of  colors  when  heavens  are  gray. 


161 


THE  SMALL  HOT  ROBIN  AND  THE  LARGE 
COLD  WORM 

HEARKEN    to    a    Fable    of    the    Recent    Heated 

Term 
On   the  Small  Hot    Robin   and   the    Large  Cold 

Worm: 

The  Weather,  you'll  remember,  was  Indubitably 

Hot, 
Which    the    Bird    seemed    likewise,    though    the 

Worm  did  not. 

The  Worm  lay  off  and  chuckled  in  the  Trickle  of 

a  Well 
As  he  heard  Folks'  Comments  on  the  Great  Hot 

Spell. 

The   Robin   kept   so   busy  with   a   Multitude  of 

Things 

That  he  made  Life  cooler  with  his  Flip-flap  Wings. 
[162! 


The    Selfish    Worm    delighted    in    the    Mercury's 

Ascent, 
But  the  Robin  never  bothered  where  the  Darned 

Thing  went. 

A-hustling  for  a  Dinner  kept  his  Resolution  firm, 
And  he  looked  most  happy  when  he  spied  that 
Worm! 

He  darted  and  he  fluttered  and  he  wriggled  and 

he  pried, — 
And  he  felt  Much  Better  with  the  Worm  inside. 

So  remember,  when  it's  Torrid,  that  you  mustn't 

fret  and  squirm; 
You  want  to  go  and  hustle  for  a  Large  Cold  Worm. 


163 


WHY   MOSQUITOES   STING 

WHEN  Suleiman  the  Glorious  was  judge  of  them 

that  sinned 
The    frail   Mosquitoes   brought  to  him    a  charge 

against  the  Wind; 

"O  mighty  King!  whene'er  we  hold  our  harm 
less  dance,"  said  they, 

"The  Wind  comes  down  from  Scanderoon  and 
sweeps  us  all  away!" 

Then   Suleiman   the   Glorious   gave   word   to   sky 

and  sea: 
"Oh,  bid  the  gipsy  Wind    appear  to  controvert 

the  plea!" 

Across    the    hills,    across    the   waves,    across    the 

deserts  blown, 
The  Wind  came  down  from  Scanderoon  to  plead 

before  the  throne. 


The  Wind  came  down  from  Scanderoon  and  bent 

the  cedar  mast; 
The    frail    Mosquitoes    whirled    away   like    chaff 

upon  the  blast. 

Again  they  strove  to  urge  their  suit  before  the 

palace  bar; 
Again  the  band,  like  thistledown,  was  scattered 

wide  and  far. 

But  yet  again  to  Suleiman  they  plied  the  gauzy 
wing: 

"Behold!"  the  spiteful  chorus  jeered,  "the  jus 
tice  of  the  King! 

"The  King  of  Men  protects  by  craft  the  Wind 

who  grieves  us  sore; 
The  Sons  of  Men  shall  pay  the  fine — and  pay  it 

o'er  and  o'er!" 

And  since  that  long-remembered  day,  the  shrewd, 

revengeful  clan 
With  treble  shrill  and  poisoned  bill  have  wreaked 

their  wrath  on  Man. 

[165] 


THE  BEE 

LITTLE  chemic-artisan, 

Doing  work  no  other  can, 

Deep  in  dewy  nectaries, 

Petal-walled  refectories — 

Apple-blossom,  columbine, 

Rose  and  lily,  all  are  thine, 

Yet,  though  oft  thy  weight  they  bear, 

Dost  thou  know  how  they  are  fair? 

Thine  are  sun  and   Summer  breeze — 

Hast  thou  aught  of  joy  in  these? 


Pollen-yellow  dumbledore, 
Leave  thy  clovers  tumbled  o'er! 
What's  a  lily?     What's  a  rose?— 
Down  the  golden  lane  he  goes, 
Drowsing  forth  a  prosy  song, 
"Honey!     Honey!"  all  day  long, 
[166! 


Wasting  life's  diviner  sweet, 
Hiving  food  for  drones  to  eat. 
Oh,  thou  silly,  silly  bee! 
Idle  here  and  learn  of  me! 


12  [l67] 


THE  FIRST  CAT 

THE  Ark  on  the  dark,  multitudinous  waters 
Was  tossing;    the  rain  in  a  cataract  poured; 

But  Noah,  his  Lady,  their  sons  and  their  daughters 
And  all  the  wild  live  stock  were  safely  aboard. 

They  weren't  much  seasick  in  spite  of  the  weather 
And  rather  cramped  quarters;    they'd  food  to 

suffice, 

And  all  things  were  lovely,  when,  squeaking  to 
gether, 
There  rushed  from  the  galley  a  rabble  of  mice! 

They  multiplied — yes,  like  a  warren  of  rabbits! 

They  plundered  the  pantry,  devoured  the  grain; 
And  such  were  their  simply  unspeakable  habits 

That  poor  Mrs.  Noah  was  well-nigh  insane! 

She  said  so  in  language  untrammeled  and  forceful! 
And  what  might  have  happened,  the  Lord  only 
knows! 

[168] 


When  Noah,  the  kindly  and  ever  resourceful, 
Went  up  to  the  Lion  and  tickled  his  nose. 

Then  thrice  sneezed   the  Lion! — and   forth  from 

the  feature 
His  Majesty  sneezed  with,   there  leaped   in   a 

trice 

A  silky-haired,   dagger-clawed,   brisk  little  Crea 
ture — 
And  woe  to  the  ravaging  legions  of  mice! 

In  twenties,  in  thirties,  in  fifties  she  slew  them 

Before  Mrs.  Noah  had  time  to  say  "scat!" 
"Aha!"   laughed   the   Skipper,  who  watched   her 

pursue  them; 

"I  don't  know  Its  name,  Dear;    let's  call  It — 
A  Cat!" 

So,  born  of  a  sneeze  in  the  Rain  of  All  Ages 
That   deluged    the   mountain,    the   valley,    and 
plain, 

The  Cat  on  your  hearthstone  to  this  day  presages, 
By  solemnly  sneezing,  the  coming  of  rain! 


THE  KITTY  AND  THE  CAT 

A  HIGHLY  Cultured  Tiger,  both  carnivorous  and 

nice, 
Was  greatly  aggravated   by  a  horde  of  Rodent 

Mice 
That  showed  the  lack  of  manners   uninvited    to 

intrude, 
And  played  the  Very  Mischief  with  his  comfort 

and  his  food. 
The  Tiger,   for   the   cleansing  of  his   Himalayan 

flat, 

Installed  within  the  domicile  a  Recommended  Cat 
Who    chased    the    Sleek    Marauders    when    they 

gathered  to  the  feast 
(Observing   due   precautions   not    to   harm    them 

in  the  least), 
Which  left  the  Tiger  happy  in  his  victuals  and 

his  sleep, 
While  Pussy  drew  good  Wages  in  addition  to  her 

Keep. 

[170] 


Now  Pussy,  growing  weary,  took  a  fortnight  to 
recruit 

Her  health,  and  left  a  Kitten  as  a  Likely  Substitute. 

But  Kitty  proved  Ambitious,  and,  despite  of  griev 
ous  wails, 

Devoured  all  the  Rodents  but  their  whiskers  and 
their  tails! 

The  Highly  Cultured  Tiger,  being  highly  pleased 
thereat, 

Discharged,  with  thanks,  his  Servitors,  the  Kitty 
and  the  Cat; 

And  while  it's  rash  to  credit  every  word  a  person 
hears, 

They  say  an  angry  Pussy  boxed  a  hopeful  Kitty's 
ears. 

And  while  I've  told  the  legend  as  it  runs  in  Hin 
dustan, 

I've  clean  forgot  the  Moral — you  may  find  it  if 
you  can. 


ETIQUETTE 

THE  Gossips  tell  a  story  of  the  Sparrow  and  the 
Cat, 

The  Feline  thin  and  hungry  and  the  Bird  exceeding 
fat. 

With  eager,  famished  energy  and  claws  of  grip 
ping  steel, 

Puss  pounced  upon  the  Sparrow  and  prepared  to 
make  a  meal. 


The  Sparrow  never  struggled  when  he  found  that 

he  was  caught 
(If  somewhat  slow  in  action  he  was  mighty  quick 

of  thought), 
But  chirped  in  simple  dignity  that  seemed  to  fit 

the  case, 
"No  Gentleman  would  ever  eat  before  he'd  washed 

his  face!" 

[172] 


This   hint  about  his  Manners  wounded  Thomas 

like  a  knife 
(For  Cats  are  great  observers  of  the  Niceties  of 

Life); 
He  paused    to  lick  his  paws,    which  seemed  the 

Proper  Thing  to  do, — 
And,  chirruping  derisively,  away  the  Sparrow  flew! 

In  helpless,  hopeless  hunger  at  the  Sparrow  on 

the  bough, 
Poor  Thomas  glowered   longingly,   and   vowed   a 

Solemn  Vow: 
"Henceforth  I'll  eat  my  dinner  first,  then  wash 

myself!"— And  that's 
The  Universal  Etiquette  for  Educated  Cats. 


LITTLE  LOST  PUP 

HE  was  lost! — not  a  shade  of  a  doubt  of  that; 
For  he  never  barked  at  a  slinking  cat, 
But  stood  in  the  square  where  the  wind  blew  raw 
With  a  drooping  ear  and  a  trembling  paw 
And  a  mournful  look  in  his  pleading  eye 
And  a  plaintive  sniff  at  the  passer-by 
That  begged  as  plain  as  a  tongue  could  sue, 
"O  Mister!    please  may  I  follow  you?" 
Oh,  the  saddest  of  sights  in  a  world  of  sin 
Is  a  little  lost  pup  with  his  tail  tucked  in! 

Well,  he  won  my  heart  (for  I  set  great  store 
On  my  own  red  Bute — who  is  here  no  more), 
So  I  whistled  clear,  and  he  trotted  up, 
And  who  so  glad  as  that  small  lost  pup? 

Now  he  shares  my  board  and  he  owns  my  bed, 
And  he  fairly  shouts  when  he  hears  my  tread; 
Then,  if  things  go  wrong,  as  they  sometimes  do, 
And  the  world  is  cold  and  Fm  feeling  blue, 


He  asserts  his  right  to  assuage  my  woes 
With  a  warm,  red  tongue  and  a  nice,  cold  nose 
And  a  silky  head  on  my  arm  or  knee 
And  a  paw  as  soft  as  a  paw  can  be. 

When  we  rove  the  woods  for  a  league  about 
He's  as  full  of  pranks  as  a  school  let  out; 
For  he  romps  and  frisks  like  a  three  months'  colt, 
And  he  runs  me  down  like  a  thunderbolt. 
Oh,  the  blithest  of  sights  in  the  world  so  fair 
Is  a  gay  little  pup  with  his  tail  in  the  air! 


[175] 


THE  AMBIGUOUS  DOG 

THE  Dog  beneath  the  Cherry-tree 
Has  ways  that  sorely  puzzle  me: 

Behind,  he  wags  a  friendly  tail; 
Before,  his  Growl  would  turn  you  pale! 

His  meaning  isn't  wholly  clear — 
Oh,  is  the  Wag  or  Growl  sincere? 

I  think  I'd  better  not  descend — 
His  Bite  is  at  the  Growly  End. 


THE  TALE  OF  TAILS 

IN  Unrecorded   Ages  when   the  Minnows   talked 

like  Whales, 

The  Very-Clever-Animals  were  destitute  of  Tails: 
The    Monkey    and    the    ' Possum    couldn't    hang 

'emselves  to  dry, 
The  Puppy  couldn't  waggle,  nor  the  Heifer  flap 

a  fly; 
So  when   the   Wild    Geese   trumpeted   that  Tails 

could  soon  be  had, 
The  Very-Clever-Animals  were  very,  very  glad. 

Upon  the  Day  Appointed,  when  the  Quadrupedal 
Rout 

Were  flocking  to  the  Trysting-Place-Where-Tails- 
Were-Given-Out, 

The  Growly  Bear  was  settling  to  his  wonted  win 
ter  nap; 

He  called  his  friend,  the  Rabbit,  an  obliging 
little  chap, 

[177] 


And  pledged  him  by  the  Whiskers  of  the  Great 

Ancestral  Hare 
To  fetch  a  fitting  Tail-piece  for  a  Self-respecting 

Bear. 

But  where  the  Tails  were  given,  there  was  such 

a  dreadful  crush — 
A  mingled  game  of  football  and  a  bargain-counter 

rush — 
That  Bunny,  hopping  wildly  for  his  own  Desired 

End, 
Forgot  his  Solemn  Promise  to  his  sleepy-headed 

friend ! 

The  Rabbit  was  returning  to  his  Merry  Native  Vale, 
Rejoicing  in  the  flourish  of  a  lovely,  furry  Tail, 
When,  rapidly  descending  from  his  Rocky  Moun 
tain  Lair, 
He  saw  the  massive  figure  of  his  friend,  the  Growly 

Bear, 
Who  roared,  "My  Tail,  O  Rabbit!    Let  me  have 

it  on  the  spot!" 

"Why—"    stammered    out    the    Rabbit,    "please 
excuse  me, — I  forgot!" 
[178] 


Oh,  Bruin  swung  his  forepaw  like  a  mighty  iron 

flail; 
He  smote  our  luckless   Bunny  on   the   Precious 

Furry  Tail 
And  shore  it  off  completely,  save  a  little  bit  of 

fluff!- 
Still,  Honey,  for  a  Bunny  that  is  cotton-tail  enough. 


WOOD-HARVEST 

YELLOWBIRD  and  Oriole  wing  to  southern  shores; 
All  the  little  foresters  glean  their  winter  stores. 

Frost  unlocks  the  chestnut  burr,  ripes  the  chinkapin, 
All  the  little  foresters  get  their  harvest  in. 

Chipmunk  in  the  hazel-grove  crams  his   pouches 

full; 
Deermouse  finds  the  alder  fruit  ripe  enough  to  pull; 

Butternut  and  hickory  please  the  Squirrel  well; 
Apples  of  the  wilderness  fill  the  Woodchuck's  cell. 

Frisking  on  the  mountainside,  rustling  down  the 

comb, 
All  the  little  foresters  hold  their  Harvest  Home. 


[180] 


COYOTE  AND  THE  STAR 

THIS  is  a  legend  from  Siskiyou  Bar, 

About  "The  Coyote  Who  Danced  with  a  Star." 

Now,  great  were  the  deeds  that  Coyote  had  done! 
Coyote  had  stolen  the  flame  of  the  Sun; 
Coyote  had  opened  the  Frost- Wizard's  pen, 
Releasing  the  Salmon,  desired  of  men. 
Coyote  was  proud  of  his  craft  and  his  might, 
His  fleetness  of  foot  and  his  clearness  of  sight, 
His  scent,  that  was  choicest  of  all  that  is  choice, 
But  most  was  he  vain  of  his  wonderful  voice! 
He  sat  like  a  monarch  exalted  on  high 
Where  Sisson's  cold  summits  are  keen  in  the  sky, 
And  watched  on  the  sweep  of  ethereal  blue 
The  Stars  and  their  satellites  pass  in  review. 

Aloft  and  alone 
O'er  Shasta's  white  cone 
A  mischievous  Star-fairy  twinkled  and  shone. 

fiSil 


So  lightly  she  danced 

That,  charmed  and  entranced, 
Coyote  cried  boldly,  "Fair,  heavenly  Sprite, 
Permit  me  to  join  in  your  glorious  flight; 

I  beg, — I  demand! 

Oh,  reach  me  your  hand! 
Together  we'll  frolic  o'er  water  and  land." 
How  flashed  the  Aurora,  till  heaven  and  earth 
Were  gay  with  the  glow  of  celestial  mirth! 
"O  hairy  Coyote!    how  stupid  you  are 
To  dream  for  a  moment  to  dance  with  a  Star!" 

What  pencil  will  venture — what  brush  will  engage 
To  show  the  Coyote  in  justified  rage? 
He  lifted  his  muzzle,  he  stiffened  his  tail, 
Affrighting  the  Night  with  a  quavering  wail. 

With  yelp  and  with  yowl, 

With  growl  and  with  howl, 
He  startled  the  Owl  and  the  Panther  aprowl. 
He  screamed  like  a  baby  bereft  of  his  toys; 
He  shattered  the  sky  with  his  scandalous  noise, 

With  his  "Yap!    yap!    ki-yee!" 

In  its  weird  minor  key, — 
For  never  was  singer  remorseless  as  he. 


All  vainly  the  Fairy  cajoled  and  denied; 

He  wouldn't  hear  reason.  Then,  wearied,  she  cried, 

"I  wish  you  were  dumb! 

You're  crazy;    but — come!" 
And  gingerly  reached  him  a  finger  and  thumb. 
He  leaped ! — and  away,  like  the  shaft  and  the  feather, 
The  Star  and  Coyote  were  flying  together. 

And  now,  as  he  fled  with  that  Spirit  of  Light 
There  rushed  far  beneath  him  a  glorious  sight 
Of  ranges  and  canons  and  barrens  and  plains, 
Of  rivers  cascading  with  turbulent  rains, 
Of  armies  of  bison,  and  cimmaron  gray, 
And  legions  of  antelopes  bounding  away; 
The  towns  of  the  Mandans,  the  Nez  Perce  ranches, 
The  Utes,   Pi-Utes,  the  dashing  Comanches 
And  Modocs,  in-reining  their  snorting  cayuses 
And  shouting  to  women  with  wickered  papooses, 
"Look!    See!" — as  they  waved  to  that  vision  afar, 
"The  Clever  Coyote,  above,  with  a  Star!" 

To  caper  in  style 
For  many  a  mile 
Careering  the  heavens,  was  grand! — for  a  while. 

13  [ 183  ] 


But  frostily  grew  on  Coyote,  apace, 

The  awe  and  the  horror  of  limitless  space. 

He  felt  on  his  temples  the  grip  of  a  vise; 

The  hand  of  his  Partner  seemed  colder  than  ice. 

Twas    dreadful    to    gaze    upon    mountains — like 

barrows ! 

The  tents  of  the  Kahrocs  like  flint  heads  of  arrows; 
The  silvery  Klamath,  whose  broad-bosomed  flow 
Showed  meager,  'mid  hills,  like  the  string  of  a  bow 
Relaxed  after  battle.     Grown  dizzy  and  numb, 
He  loosened  his  hold  on  the  finger  and  thumb 
And  dropped  to  the  earth  like  a  meteor — plumb! 

And  lit  with  a — spat! 

As  flat  as  a  mat! 

So  here  is  the  Moral  from  Siskiyou  Bar: 
"You  Callow  Coyote,  don't  dance  with  no  Star!" 


HOMEWARD  BOUND 

THERE'S  a  pine-built  lodge  in  a  rocky  mountain 

glen 

In  the  shag-breasted  motherland  that  bore  me; 
And  the  West  Wind  calls,  and  I'm  turning  home 

again 
To  the  hills  where  my  heart  is  gone  before  me, — 

Where  a  lake  laughs  blue  while  the  dipping  paddles 

gleam, 

Where  the  wild  geese  are  following  their  leader, 
Where  the  trout  leaps  up  from  the  silver  of  the 

stream 
And  the  buck  strikes  his  horn  against  the  cedar. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  BLACKBIRD 

THE  Blackbird,  the  Blackbird  was  once  of  snowy 

white; 
What  gave  the  sooty  Blackbird  a  coat  as  dark  as 

night  ? 

The  Blackbird,  the  Blackbird  had  music  in  his 
throat; 

What  gave  the  croaking  Blackbird  a  harsh,  dis 
cordant  note? 

The  Blackbird,  the  Blackbird  had  once  a  beak  of 

red; 
What  gave  the  somber  Blackbird  a  golden  beak 

instead  ? 


The  Blackbird,  the  Blackbird  came  out  to  greet 

the  Spring; 
He  met  a  merry  Magpie  that  bore  a  jeweled  ring. 

fi861 


The  Blackbird,  the  Blackbird  would  seek  a  gem 

as  brave. 
"I    found    it,"    piped    the    Magpie,    "within    the 

Treasure  Cave." 

The  Blackbird,  the  Blackbird  would  learn  where 

that  might  be. 
"To  westward,"  sang  the  Magpie,   "beyond  the 

Opal  Sea." 

The   Blackbird,    the   Blackbird   would   know   the 

cavern's  lord. 
"A  Dragon,"  chirped  the  Magpie,  "protects  the 

Golden  Hoard." 

The   Blackbird,   the   Blackbird   would   brave   the 

Dragon's  zeal. 
"Be  honest,"  warned  the  Magpie,  "and  ask,  but 

do  not  steal." 

The    Blackbird,    the    Blackbird    flew    fast    across 

the  wave; 
Within  the  Sable  Mountain  he  found  the  Treasure 

Cave. 

[187] 


The  Blackbird,  the  Blackbird  went  hopping  down 

the  floor; 
The  ransom  of  a  kingdom  was  heaped  in  golden 

ore. 

The  Blackbird,  the  Blackbird  forgot  what  he  was 

told; 
His  thieving  beak  of  crimson  he  dipped  in  dust 

of  gold. 

The  Blackbird,  the  Blackbird  fled  forth  in  shriek 
ing  woe; 

The  Dragon  of  the  Treasure  came  roaring  from 
below! 

The    Blackbird,    the    Blackbird  reached    safety — 

but,  alack! 

The  sulphur-breathing  Dragon  had  scorched  his 

plumage  black! 

The    Blackbird,    the    Blackbird   can   never   more 

rejoice; 
That  guilty  cry  of  terror  has  marred  his  liquid 

voice. 

[188] 


The  Blackbird,  the  Blackbird   flies  off  in  heavy 

shame; 
The  gold   he  would  have  stolen  defiles  his  beak 

of  flame! 


THE  BAT 

AIRY-MOUSE,  hairy  mouse, 

Keen-eared  contrary  mouse, 
Come  from  your  cavern — a  star's  in  the  sky! 

Fluttering,  flittering, 

Eerily  chittering, 
Swoop  on  your  quarry,  the  dusk-haunting  fly. 

Airy-mouse,  wary  mouse, 

Witch-bird  or  fairy-mouse, 
Soft  through  the  shadow  the  dawn-glimmer  steals; 

Night's  your  carousing-time, 

Day  brings  your  drowsing-time; 
Hence  to  your  hollow  and  hang  by  your  heels! 


190] 


TEA  WITH  A  DINOSAUR 

THUNDER-LIZARD,  Brontosaurus, 
You  that  lived  so  long  before  us, 
You  that  ruled  this  mundane  locus 
In  the  days  of  Diplodocus, 
Marvel  of  your  age — the  classic 
Mesozoic  time,  Jurassic, 
Stir  your  sixty  feet  of  length! 
Rouse  your  prehistoric  strength! 
Lift  your  twenty  tons  anew! 
They  are  taking  tea — with  you! 
What  effrontery!    what  mockery! 
Rise,  oh,  rise  and  smash  the  crockery! 

Once  you  roamed  o'er  rocks  cretaceous 
Feasting  on  the  growths  herbaceous, 
Chewing  Damarites  gum 
With  Iguanodon,  your  chum. 
Once  you  listened  to  the  singing 
Of  the  Pterodactyls,  winging 


Through  the  arborescent  ferns. 
Doing  acrobatic  turns, 
Archaeopteryx  bore  chorus, 
When,  with  mighty  Mososaurus 
And  Triceratops  the  proud 
Through  the  tepid  seas  you  plowed. 

Now  you  hearken  to  the  clatter 

Of  the  tea-cups,  and  the  chatter 

Of  an  upstart  race,  as  dwarfish 

As  a  Cenozoic  crawfish! 

Though  they  say  you're  not  carnivorous, 

Wag  that  tail — and  Lord  deliver  us! 

Did  some  dragon-slaying  Horus 
Cause  your  death,  great  Brontosaurus? 
Did  the  marshes  cloak  your  glory 
With  their  mud? — (A  shameful  story!) 
Once  you  breathed,  Creation's  wonder, 
And  your  footsteps  woke  the  thunder. 

Now,  they  treat  you  with  disdain; 
Say  you  had  a  two-pound  brain, 
Not  an  ounce  of  wit  to  spare, 
And  the  courage  of  a  hare! 


Will  you  hear  the  shocking  slander 
Unrevengeful ?     Where's  your  dander? 
Make  these  Men  of  Science  see  things! 
Raise  a  riot  'mongst  the  tea-things! 
Show  the  might  you  lived  to  glory  in! 
Rise!   insulted  Dinosaurian! 


THE  HUMMING-BIRD 

A  MORSEL  of  rainbow  forgot  by  a  shower 
Is  dashing  the  dew  from  the  cardinal-flower. 
Two  delicate  pinions  delightedly  drumming 
Are  witching  the  dawn  with  JLolian  humming. 
A  dainty  black  needle  is  probing  the  roses 
And  proving  what  nectar  the  lily  incloses. 
But  under  the  honey-vine's  odorous  cover 
A  true  little  bride  waits  her  recreant  lover. 
Then,  fie!    feathered   truant,  'tis  time  you  were 

winging; 

Enough  of  your  feasting  and  music  and  singing, 
And  arrow  your  flight  to  that  bower  of  rest — 
Your  spider-web,  thistledown,  maidenhair  nest! 


M94] 


THE  RABBIT  OF  WALES 

MY  riddle's  a  joy  in  a  world  of  despair; 
A  cousin,  they  say,  of  the  merry  March  hare; 
He  flourishes  most  at  five  hundred  degrees; 
His  cradle's  a  toast  and  his  mother's  a  cheese; 
A  troublesome,  bubblesome,  sweet  little  beast, 
His  fragrant  enough  is  as  good  as  a  feast — 
(For  who  that  is  mortal  may  grapple  with  two?) 
When  hot,  he's  ambrosia;    when  cold,  he  is  glue. 
He  never  had  fur,  feathers,  features,  nor  scales. 
The  answer  ?    Of  course !     'Tis  the  Rabbit  of  Wales. 

When  Arthur  ruled  Britain  with  scepter  and  sword, 
There  came  to  the  King  at  the  festival  board 
A  wizard  unrivaled  in  magical  spell, 
Hight  Morgan  ap  something  in  F-double-L. 
"Bold  knights  and  true  maidens!"  he  said,  "ye 

perceive 
There's   nothing    concealed    in    the    folds   of  my 

sleeve." 

[195] 


Then,  "Hey!    presto!    change!"     From  the  helm 

of  King  Lot 

He  drew  forth  a  Viand  all  smoking  and  hot. 
"This  Marvel,"  quoth  he,  "'mongst  the  chiefs  of 

the  dales 
Of  Rheidol,  is  known  as  the  Rabbit  of  Wales." 

Then  reveled  those  lordlings,  and  when  it  beseemed 
They  hied  them  to  slumber.     And,  soothly,  they 

dreamed 

Of  gryfons  and  dragons  and  gy aunts,  and  thynges, 
And  heathen  enchaunters  and  Saracen  kynges, 
And  boars  that  had  tuishes  full  twenty  rods  long, 
And   jousts   that   were   bloody   and    strokes   that 

were  strong, 

Of  which,  when  ye  read  (an  it  please  ye  to  look) 
Set  down  in  the  pages  of  Malory's  book, 
Remember,  that  they  who  recounted  these  tales 
Had  banqueted  free  on  the  Rabbit  of  Wales. 

He  lives  through  the  ages,  more  soothing  than  silk, 
As  potent  as  porter,  as  gentle  as  milk. 
Unblemished  of  youth,  he  has  heightened  disport 
In  hovel  and  palace,  in  tavern  and  court. 


When   Jonson   and   Herrick   made   feasts   at   the 

Sun, 

The  Boar  and  the  Mermaid,  of  them  he  was  one. 
He    frolicked    with    Shakespeare,    with     Chaucer 

and  Gower; 

He's  older  than  Merlin  and  Owen  Glendower; 
They  find  in  the  primal  Devonian  shales 
The  fossil  remains  of  the  Rabbit  of  Wales. 

When  tables  are  snowy,  and  heavenward  roll 
The  violet  smoke  wreaths  that  comfort  the  soul, 
He  comes!    from  the  region  of  skillets  and  spits 
Upborne  on  the  platter  of  rubicund   Fritz. 
How  blithely  he  bubbles!    How  sweetly  he  steams! 
How  mellow,  how  yellow,  how  tender  he  seems! 
So  mild  is  his  temper,  we'll  give  it  a  cross; 
Then   feed   him  with   mustard    and   berry   brown 

sauce, 

And  drink  his  repose  in  the  primest  of  ales: 
"Waes  hael!    to  the  rantipole  Rabbit  of  Wales!'5 


[197 


MACARONI 

'Tis  made  of  the  flour  of  wheat,  so  they  say, 
Although  I  confess  to  the  dawnings 

Of  doubt  how  they  mix  it  on  Avenue  A 
Before  it  is  dried  on  the  awnings. 

Fair  Italy's  sons  in  the  family  shed 

Alluringly  drape  it  and  coil  it; 
But  don't  be  afraid,  for  the  microbes  are  dead 

As  nails  when  you   properly  boil  it. 

'Tis  blithe,  in  the  cellars  of  festive  New  York 

To  see  how  the  diners  assail  it! 
Some  mince  it,  some  reel  up  its  lengths  on  a  fork, 

While  others  devoutly  inhale  it. 

It  should  be  absorbed  to  "Faniculi's"  strains, 

Or,  maybe,   to  "Santa  Lucia's." 
All  poets  agree  it  is  good  for  the  brains. 

The  best  may  be  had  at  Maria's. 

[  198  ] 


I  like  it  served  hotter,  by  twenty  degrees, 
Than  any  place  mentioned  by  Dante; 

Then,  quickly!    Beppino,  with  plenty  of  cheese, 
And  don't  you  forget  the  Chianti! 


'4  Fiqq] 


THE  CUCKOO 

(A   FABLE    FOR  THE    DIFFIDENT) 

A  CUCKOO,  winging  toward  the  Town 

Of  Tutinghorn, 
Espied   a  Wren  that  fluttered  down 

Upon  a  thorn; 

And,  lighting  near,  the  silence  broke 

With  eager  words 
Demanding  how  the  village  spoke 

Of  other  birds. 

"How  talk  they  of  the  Nightingale?" 

The  Cuckoo  cried. 
"Her  fame  resounds  through  all  the  vale," 

The  Wren  replied. 

"The  Lark,"  the  Cuckoo  hinted  then, 

"Wins  equal  praise?" 
"Why,  half  the  village,"  chirped  the  Wren, 

"Extol  his  lays." 

[200] 


"Perhaps  they  laud  the  Robin,  too?" 

Quoth  April's  bird. 
"The  Robin?    Well,  perhaps  a  few," 

The  Wren  averred. 

The  Cuckoo  paused.     "What  share  have  I 

Of  praise  or  blame?" 
"Ah,"  laughed  the  Wren,  who  cannot  lie, 

"None  breathe  your  name." 

The  Cuckoo  huffed  in  wounded  pride; 

Away  he  flew. 
"Then  must  I  praise  myself"  he  cried; 

"Cuckoo!     Cuckoo!" 


201  ] 


TRAMPING 

His  heart  should  sing  from  dawn  to  sunset  flare, 
Wherever  foot  may  tread  his  path  may  lie, 

His  pack  must  be  too  small  to  hold  a  care 
Who  takes  for  guide  the  gipsy  butterfly. 

At  morn  the  thrush,  at  noon  the  tinkling  brook, 
At  eve  the  cricket  choir  shall  cheer  his  way; 

His  eye  shall  find  delight  in  every  nook; 

The  squirrels — merry  gnomes  in  red  or  gray, — 

The  clover  bent  beneath  the  booming  bees, 
The  woodchuck,  sober  monk  in  russet  clad, 

The  dragon-fly  athwart  the  culverkeys 

Shall  wake  his  love  of  things  and  make  him  glad. 

Again  along  a  checkered  road  I  swing 

Through  friendly  woods  and  fields  where  daisies 

nod, 

While  still  before  me  drifts  on  vagrant  wing 
The  butterfly  whose  beauty  praises  God. 
[202] 


MERE    LITERATURE 


IMPUDENT  INTERVIEWS 

I 
GEORGE   BERNARD   SHAW 

A  CHEERFUL,  well-appointed  study  at  Number 
10,  Adelphi  Terrace,  London,  W.  C.,  the  blaze 
of  a  crackling  fire,  within,  rendered  doubly  alluring 
by  the  bluster  of  a  detestable  March  night,  without. 
Substantial  furniture,  a  neatly  arranged  desk,  and 
bookcases  filled  with  orderly  volumes,  notably  the 
works  of  Nietzsche,  Schopenhauer,  Karl  Marx 
and  Plato,  with  dramatists  old  and  new,  suggest 
that  the  inmate  is  a  methodical  person  possessed 
of  philosophic  and  literary  tastes.  This  diagnosis 
is  borne  out  by  the  appearance  of  the  victim  him 
self  as  he  stands  with  his  back  to  the  glow,  his  tall, 
thin,  alert,  Satanic  figure  sharply  outlined  against 
the  yellow  flames.  How  old  is  he?  His  some 
what  scanty  hair  and  beard,  once  red,  but  now  al 
most  colorless,  indicate  that  he  has  emerged  from 

[205] 


the  larval  stage  of  youthful  cynicism  and  despond 
ency  and  is  now  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  that 
radiant  benevolence  and  optimism  granted  only 
to  those  who  have  known  the  triumphs  and  accom 
plished  promises  of  half  a  century  and  more. 
His  brown  suit,  red  tie,  and  soft  flannel  shirt,  as 
well  as  the  broad-brimmed  Alpine  hat  which  he 
has  thrown  upon  the  table,  reveal  the  Socialist; 
his  excessive  pallor  betrays  confirmed  vegetarian 
ism;  while  his  steel-blue  eyes  of  soldierly  direct 
ness  give  assurance  that  here  is  one  who  would 
sooner  quarrel  than  eat  a  bushel  of  turnips.  Upon 
the  bookcase  facing  him  stands  a  bronze  portrait- 
bust,  clearly  of  himself  (for  it  is  by  the  hand  of 
no  less  a  sculptor  than  Rodin),  upon  which  his 
eyes  fall  quizzically,  yet,  on  the  whole,  with  great 
respect.  To  the  right  and  left  of  this  master 
piece  are  other  works  of  art — an  effigy  of  Ibsen 
upon  which  our  Protagonist,  as  he  speaks,  confers 
a  glance  of  condescending  approbation;  a  bas- 
relief  of  Wagner,  which  he  notices  with  a  slight 
nod  that  seems  to  say,  "Very  well,  old  man;  but 
it's  lucky  for  you  that  I  devoted  myself  to  Drama 
instead  of  Opera";  and  an  engraving  of  the  Strat- 

[206] 


ford  bust  of  Shakespeare  which  must,  perforce,  be 
content  with  a  commiserating  smile  that  may  be 
interpreted  as  signifying,  "Poor  chap!  You  meant 
well,  but  you  didn't  know!" 


My  birth?     I  beg  you,  let  us  call 

That  mystery  unsolved. 
In  fact,  I  was  not  born  at  all, 

But,   so  to  speak,  evolved. 

My  education?     Books  are  naught; 

At  schools  I've  always  spurned; 
So  just  put  down,  "The  man  was  taught"; 

Or,  better  still,  "He  learned." 

You  seek  to  know  my  aim  in  life? — 

To  write  as  best  I  can, 
To  stir  a  little  wholesome  strife 

And  hunt  the  Superman. 

Myself,  the  First  of  Supermen, 

I  levitate  above 
Your  wabbling  world,  and  now  and  then 

I  give  the  thing  a  shove. 
[207] 


In  motley  clad  ("the  only  wear!") 

I  watch  with  fiendish  grin 
Your  childish  bubbles  float  in  air 

And  prick  them  with  a  pin. 

My  creed,  though  big  and  broad,  insists 

On  ten  perfervid  hells, 
Say  one  for  anti-Socialists 

And  nine  for  H.  G.  Wells. 

Ah,  yes;    I've  written  loads  of  stuff 

From  changing  points  of  view, 
And  all  of  it  is  bright  enough, 

And  much,  I  fear,  is  true. 

My  Works?    behold  them,  bound  in  calf 

Upon  the  middle  shelf. 
They're  great;  yet,  somehow,  more  than  half 

I  don't  believe  myself. 

For  what  is  Truth?     How  well  I  know 

A  jest  confutes  the  wise! 
But  this,  at  least,  I'm  sure  is  so — 

It  pays  to  advertise! 

[208] 


II 

RUDYARD  KIPLING 

WELL,  take  a  chair,  cock  your  feet  upon  the  mantel 
piece 

(Seeing  that's  your  custom  in  the  "Country  of 
the  Free"); 

Though  I've  always  been  averse 
My  achievements  to  rehearse, 
Yet  to  ease  an  Anxious  Public  I  will  tell  the  tale 
of  ME. 


Trained  in  a  school  in  the  dowie  dens  of  Devon 
shire, 

Joined    with    wild     companions     full     of     dark 
iniquity, 

I  concocted  boyish  crimes 
And  composed  satiric  rhymes 
Till   my   college-mates   and    pedagogues   were   all 
afraid  of  ME. 

[209] 


Up   came  a  ship  and    they  packed  me  back  to 

India, 

There  to  run  a  paper  like  a  printer  on  a  spree; 
And  I  wrote  of  many  things, 
Yea,  of  Cabbages  and  Kings, 
For  the  Secrets  of  the  Universe  are  openwork  to 
ME. 

Sang  I  the  wiles  of  the  black  and  yellow  Aryan, 
Brahman  or  Mohammedan  of  high  or  low  degree: 
Khoda  Baksh  and  Daoud  Shah, 
Gunga  Din  and  Dana  Da, — 
Their  polka-dotted  consciences  were  primers  unto 
ME. 

Sang  I  the  ways  of  the  furry-coated  Jungle  Folk; 
Furthermore,  the  ways  of  the  Best  Society; 

But,  speaking  man  to  man, 

Young  Mowgli  and  his  clan 

In    all    the    prime    essentials    seemed    the    better 
crowd  to  ME. 

Sang  I  the  feats  of  the  heavy-footed  soldier-man, 
Infantry  and  horse,  but  especially  of  Three. 

[210] 


Oh,  my  views  are  often  crude, 
And  my  manners  mostly  rude, 
But  Stanley,  Jock,  and  Terence  were  the  best  of 
friends  with  ME. 

Far  went  my  fame,  and  afar  I  went  to  follow  it, 
Ranged  the  zones  and  continents  and  roved  From 
Sea  to  Sea; 

And  I  wrote  of  all  I  saw, 
And  I  flicked  you  on  the  raw, 
But,  Masterpiece  or  Tommyrot,  you  bougnt  my 
books  of  ME. 

Oh,  I  have  whooped  for  entangled  Jingo  politics, 
Told  of  sordid  battles  and  of  Britons  up  a  tree; 

I  have  bellowed  double-bass 

For  the  Glory  of  the  Race, 

And    Sovereigns   and   Ministers   have   taken    tips 
from  ME. 

Ah,   I   have  twanged  of  the  choo-choo  car  and 

flying-ship, 
Imaging  my  world  and  the  wonder  yet  to  be; 

[211] 


Electricity  and  Steam 
And  the  Piston  and  the  Beam 
And  the  Triple-action  Whirligig  are  Poetry  to  ME. 

Now  what  remains  but  to  sing  the  Song  of  Calculus, 
Logarithmic  lullaby  and  algebraic  glee? 

I  will  chant  in  Lowland  Dutch 

Of  Quaternions  and  such, 

And  the  boundless  Fourth  Dimension  shall  delight 
to  honor  ME! 


[212] 


Ill 

JACK  LONDON 

IN  the  hurly  and   the  burly  of  the  Early   Pleis 
tocene, 

Ere  the  Adamistic  Dynasty  began, 
I  went    roaming   through   the  gloaming  with  my 

little  forest  queen, 

Not  a  Monkey,  nor  an  Evoluted  Man. 
Oh,  we  teased  the  Woolly  Bear 
And  we  pulled  the  Mammoth's  hair 
And  we  took  the  Snarly  Tiger  by  the  paw. 
Though  I've  lived  an  awful  lot, 
I  have  never  quite  forgot 
Human  Nature  as  I  knew  it  in  the  Raw. 

I'm  a  Railer  and  a  Trailer  and  a  Sailor  of  the  Seas 

(In  my  Present  Incarnation,  let  me  add), 
Anarchistic,  atavistic,  pessimistic,  if  you  please, 
For  I've  roved  around  the  world  and  found  it 
bad. 

[213] 


In  the  cold  Alaskan  camps, 

On  the  road  with  grimy  tramps, 
On  the  ocean  in  the  howling  of  the  gale, 

I  have  played  a  fitting  part; 

And  I  learned  the  writer's  art 
By  inventing  lies  to  keep  me  out  of  jail. 

If  you're  burning  to  be  earning  over  seven  cents 

a  word 

You  must  cultivate  the  Brutal  and  the  Rude. 
Write    a    story    that    is    gory;     milder   matter   is 

absurd, 

For  the  Public  has  no  taste  for  Baby  Food. 
Give  'em  Cruelty  and  Vice, 
Give  'em  Misery  on  Ice, 

Give  'em  rough-and-tumble,  marlinspike,  and  gun; 
Give  'em  groans  to  wake  the  dead, 
Make  it  Gristly,  Ripe,  and  Red, 
For  they  love  their  Mental  Beefsteak  underdone. 


IV 

JAMES  WHITCOMB   RILEY 

DOWN  in  Injianny  (ez  you  may  'uv  heard  before), 
The  sweet,  ol'-fashioned  roses  grow  about  the  cot 
tage  door, 
An'   hummin'-birds  go  dartin'   roun'   the  swayin' 

hollyhawks, 
An*   daisies  edge  the  gardin   paths  where  Arma- 

zindy  walks. 
The  little  boys  plays  hooky,  an'  they  takes  their 

fishin'-pole, 
Or  you  kin  hear  'em  splashin'  in  the  riffled  swim- 

min'-hole, 
An'  other  things  is  happenin'  what  you  mustn't 

write  about, 
Or  the  Publishers  '11  git  you 

Ef  you 

Don't 

Watch 

Out! 
*5  [215] 


Wunst  there  wuz  a  little  boy  what  didn't  mean 

no  harm, 

But  lived  in  Hancock  County  near  a  watermelon- 
farm; 
He  might  'a'  been  a  lawyer,  but  wuz  skeered  o' 

bein'  rich, 
So  took  to  paintin'  signs  an'  things,  an'  actorin', 

an*  sich, 
An'  singin*  songs  with  chirp  o'  bird  an'  splash  o' 

summer  rain, 
With  here  a  tender,  homey  tale  an'  there  a  quaint 

refrain. 
But    don't   you   go   a-makin'    rhymes   that   folks 

can't  do  without, 
Or  the  Publishers  '11  git  you 

Ef  you 

Don't 

Watch 

Out! 

There's  lots  o'  fellers  pennin*  odes  which  some 
how  don't  connect, 

Becuz    they    think    the    major    p'int    is    Hoosier 
dialect. 

[216! 


Now  dialect  is  handy  ez  a  means  o'  savin*  time — 
It  often   helps   a   lazy   bard   that's   lookin*   fer  a 

rhyme; 

But  poetry  is  poetry,  no  matter  what  the  tongue — 
The  lovin'  thought,  the  lyric  word  appeals  to  old 

an*  young; 
An*  ef  you  got  the  hang  uv  it  there  isn't  any 

doubt 

That  the  Publishers  '11  git  you 

Ef  you 

Don't 

Watch 

Out! 


217] 


LETTERS  TO  THE  LITERATI 

I 

TO  SIR  ARTHUR  CONAN  DOYLE 

GENTLE  Sir  Conan,  I'll  venture  that  few  have  been 
Half  as  prodigiously  lucky  as  you  have  been. 
Fortune,  the  flirt!  has  been  wondrously  kind  to 

you, 

Ever  beneficent,  sweet,  and  refined  to  you. 
Doomed   though   you   seemed — one   might  swear 

without  perjury — 

Doomed  to  the  practice  of  physic  and  surgery, 
Yet,  growing  weary  of  pills  and  physicianing, 
Off  to  the  Arctic  you  packed,  expeditioning. 
Roving  and  dreaming,  Ambition,  that  heady  sin, 
Gave  you  a  spirit  too  restless  for  medicine; 
That,  I  presume,  as  Romance  is  the  quest  of  us, 
Made  you  an  Author — the  same  as  the  rest  of  us. 
Ah,  but  the  rest  of  us  clamor  distressfully, 
"How  do  you  manage  the  game  so  successfully? 


Tell  us,  disclose  to  us  how  under  Heaven  you 
Squeeze  from  the  inkpot  so  splendid  a  revenue!" 
Then,   when   you'd   published   your  volume  that 

vindicates 

England's  South  African  raid  (or  the  Syndicate's), 
Pleading  that  Britain's  extreme  bellicosity 
Wasn't  (as  most  of  us  think)   an  atrocity — 
Straightway  they  gave  you  a  cross  with  a  chain 

to  it — 

(Oh,  what  an  honor!    I  could  not  attain  to  it, 
Not  if  I  lived  to  the  age  of  Methusalem !) — 
Made  you  a  Knight  of  St.  John  of  Jerusalem! 
Faith!  as  a  teller  of  tales  you've  the  trick  with 

you! 
Still  there's  a  bone  I've  been  longing  to  pick  with 

you: 

Holmes  is  your  hero  of  drama  and  serial; 
All  of  us  know  where  you  dug  the  material 
Whence  he  was  molded — 'tis  almost  a  platitude; 
Yet  your  detective,  in  shameless  ingratitude — 
Sherlock  your  sleuthhound  with  motives  ulterior 
Sneers  at  Poe's  "Dupin"  as  "very  inferior!" 
Labels  Gaboriau's  clever  "Lecoq,"  indeed, 
Merely  "a  bungler,"  a  creature  to  mock,  indeed! 
[219] 


This,  when  your  plots  and  your  methods  in  story 

owe 

More  than  a  trifle  to  Poe  and  Gaboriau, 
Sets  all  the  Muses  of  Helicon  sorrowing. 
Borrow,  Sir  Knight,  but  be  decent  in  borrowing! 
Still  let  us  own  that  your  bent  is  a  cheery  one, 
Little  you've  written  to  bore  or  to  weary  one, 
Plenty  that's  slovenly,  nothing  with  harm  in  it, 
Much  with  abundance  of  vigor  and  charm  in  it. 
Give  me  detectives  with  brains  analytical 
Rather  than  weaklings  with  morals  mephitical — 
Stories  of  battles  and  man's  intrepidity 
Rather  than  wails  of  neurotic  morbidity! 
Give  me  adventures  and  fierce  dinotheriums 
Rather  than  Hewlett's  ecstatic  deliriums! 
Frankly,  Sir  Conan,  some  hours  I've  eased  with 

you 
And,  on  the  whole,  I  am  pretty  well  pleased  with 

you. 


[220] 


II 

TO  J.  M.  BARRIE 

WHAT  are  you  busy  at,  Barrie,  my  laddie-boy? 
Is  it  you're  golfing,  pursued  by  a  caddie-boy? 
Man,    are    you    preaching,    romancing    or  joking 

now? 

What  is  the  blend  of  tobacco  you're  smoking  now? 
Maybe  you're  writing  in  hoot-awa'  dialect 
Sketches  of  orthodox  elders  and  high,  elect 
Kirkmen  of  Glasgow,  or  Thrums,  or  Glen  Quharity, 
Long  on  religion  yet  lacking  in  charity, 
Banning  all  pleasures  as  covertly  sinister. 
Give  us  some  news  of  your  braw  Little  Minister 
All  in  your  true,  Ecclefechan-Glengarry-tone — 
Where  is  the  voice  that  is  sweeter  than  Barrie- 

tone  ? 

There  on  my  table  with  covers  all  gilded  up, 
Peter  and  Wendy  —  the    book   you  have  builded 
up 

[221] 


Out  of  the   games   we've   all   played   but   forgot 

about, 
Out   of  the   dreams   that   you   know   such   a   lot 

about — 

Spreads,  to  recall  to  us  poor  ephemerides, 
How  once  we  roved  in  the  Golden  Hesperides, 
Roved  in  our  childhood  when  dreams  were  realities. 
Come!    Let's  adventure  in  new  principalities; 
Fly  through  the  blue  empyrean,  ecstatical; 
Skirmish  with  Injuns  and  villains  piratical; 
Battle  with  lions  and  monsters  reptilian; 
Slip  from  the  gnashings  of  jaws  crocodilian; 
Massacre  grizzlies  and  tigers  Hyrcanian; 
Wander  in  wonderful  caves  subterranean; 
Build  in  those  underworlds  marvelous  palaces 
Proving  the  dogmas  of  physics  pure  fallacies; 
Dance  with  the  mermaids  and  cope  with  those 

subtle  fish, 

Shark  and  octopus  and  terrible  cuttle-fish; 
Sport  in  the  tree-tops  with   monkeys  that  hand 

to  us 

Mangoes  and  nuts  and  are  perfectly  grand  to  us; 
Dig  buried  treasure  in  islands  with  cannibals; 
Conquer  like  Caesars,  Napoleons,  Hannibals! 

[222] 


Be  but  our  leader,  and  fearless  we'll  follow  you, 
Aye,  though  the  maw  of  Leviathan  swallow  you! 

Old  are  the  dreamers  who,  when  they  awake,  be 
lieve 

All  that  they  dreamed  in  their  childhood  was 
make-believe. 

Older  are  they  who,  engrossed  in  endeavor,  land 

Seldom  or  never  at  all  in  your  Neverland. 

Oldest  are  they  that  forget,  in  their  gravity, 

E'en  that  they  dreamed  in  their  youth  and  de 
pravity, 

Plodding  and  grubbing  to  win  just  a  penny  more, 

Too  dull  to  sigh  for  Arcadia  any  more! 

Surely,  such  renegades  we  shall  not  show  our 
selves. 

Must  we  grow  up — like  them?  Not  if  we  know 
ourselves! 


223] 


Ill 

TO  MAURICE   HEWLETT 

WHO'S  the  romancer  to  tax  our  credulities? 
Who  but  our  hero,  Sir  Maurice  de  Hewlett,  is! 
Have  I  been  reading  your  "Song  of  the  Renny" 

thing  ? 

Sure!    and  it's  quite  too  exciting  for  anything. 
Oh,  but  your  ladies  and  knights  are  a  fancy  lot — 
Pikpoynts  and  Blanchmains,  Mabilla  and  Lance- 

ilhot, 

Borrowed  from  legend  or  chivalric  chronicle, 
Fierce-hearted  women  folk,  braggarts  thrasonical, 
Nobles  as  gross  as  the  Nile  hippopotami, 
Lawless  and  lustful  and  skilled  in  phlebotomy, 
Villains  that  stab  while  the  victim  negotiates — 
Hardly  the  kind  one  prefers  as  associates, 
Innocent   maidens    enmeshed    in    the    scheme   of 

things — 
Do  you  eat  mince-pie  to  help  you  to  dream  of 

things  ? 

[224] 


Faith,   'tis   a   bedlam,   the   realm  that  you  write 

about, 

Freckled  with  castles  and  ladies  to  fight  about. 
Aye,  'tis  a  kingdom  for  raising  the  devil  in, 
Such     as     good     Brother    Jack     London     would 

revel  in. 

Bold  is  your  fancy  and  wildly  pictorial, 
Strangely  controlled  and  yet  phantasmagorial. 
Like  your  old  churchmen  you  strive  to  illuminize, 
Yet,  in  creating,  you  only  half  humanize, 
Making  your  knights  and  their  lovely  affinities 
Not  men  and  women,  but  fallen  divinities 
Driven  by  Fate  and  their  passions  tyrannical. 
Then, — but  you'll  say  that  I'm  too  Puritanical. 
Though  your  morality  somewhat  too  porous  is, 
You  can  sling  language  to  beat  the  thesauruses. 
So,  go  ahead  with  your  epics  of  greater  days, 
Making  us  glad  that  we're  living  in  later  days. 
Sing  us  your  Iliads,  Eddas,  and  Odysseys, 
Sing  us  of  ladies  with  palpitant  bodices, 
Long-sworded  bravos  and  helmeted  paladins, 
Troubadours,  vavasours,  Richards,  and  Saladins! 
Sing  us  of  demoiselles,  proudly  imperial, 
Clad  in  some  soft,  gauzy,  purple  material; 

[225] 


Sing  us  of  donjon,  portcullis,  and  bartizan, 
Sing  us  of  battle-ax,  falchion,  and  partisan! 
Sing  us  of  females  that  strangle  their  relatives, 
Sing  us  of  poets  with  pretty  appellatives, 
Sing  of  the  loves  of  the  lamellibranchia — 
Anything's  better  than  Senhouse  and  Sanchia! 


226] 


RHYMED  REVIEW 
BELLA  DONNA,  BY  ROBERT  HICHENS 

THE  Nile:    Adorn  our  painted  scene 
With  dahabeeyahs,  sphinxes,  scarabs 

And  choruses  of  fellaheen, 

Saadeyehs,  donkey-boys,  and  Arabs. 

Here  Nigel  Armine  brought  his  wife, 
"La  Bella  Donna" — not  to  trim  it, 

A  lady  with  a  checkered  life, 

Prepared  to  go  beyond  the  limit. 

Idyllic  love,  divine  but  tame, 

Had  left  her  peevish,  bored,  and  moody, 
When  up  the  Nile  Diversion  came — 

A  Greek-Egyptian  called  Baroudi — 

A  millionaire  with  noble  head, 

Soft  voice,  and  eyes  of  burning  glances, 
The  sort  of  scamp  expressly  bred 

For  recent  white-and-tan  romances, — 
[227] 


Who  made  her  woo  him.     Sad  to  state, 

His  love  was  purely  Oriental; 
Which  means,  about  the  lady's  fate 

He  didn't  care  a  continental. 

They  met  on  shadowed  desert  scaurs, 
Baroudi's  tent  the  couple  screening. 
«*         *        *        *        *» 

(Observe,  I  quote  these  little  stars; 
Let  Mr.  Hichens  clear  their  meaning). 

He  dropped  a  hint;    she  snatched  it  up. 

With  powdered  lead  in  rank  solution 
She  dosed  her  husband's  coffee-cup 

And  would  have  wrecked  his  constitution. 

But  ere  the  fatal  work  was  done 
Appeared  that  heaven-sent  physician 

The  famous  Doctor  Isaacson, 
A  Sherlock  Holmes  for  intuition, 

To  spoil  the  game.     With  little  ruth 
He  rent  her  sweet,  angelic  cover; 

So  Bella  Donna  owned  the  truth 
And  fled  by  night  to  join  her  lover. 
[228! 


He  cast  her  off.     In  blinded  haste, 
Before  the  birds  began  to  twitter, 

She  staggered  far  across  the  waste — 
I  hope  to  God  a  lion  bit  her! 


[229] 


DIVINA  COMMEDIA 

BEYOND  the  Pleiades: 
"Your  name?" 

"Sam  Clemens,  please." 
"Don't  know  you.     Where  in  space 
D'you  hail  from?" 

"Earth." 

"What  place 
Is  that?" 

"A  place  for  fun." 
"Hmp! — tell  me  what  you've  done." 
"Let's  see. — I  wrote  Huck  Finn— 
"What?— Mark!— Why,  come  right  in!" 


[230] 


THE  YOUNG  CELTIC  POETS 

(WITH   THANKS  TO   G.    K.    CHESTERTON) 

THEIR  hearts  are  bowed  with  sorrow, 

They  love  to  wail  and  croon; 
They  shed  big  tears  when  they  sigh,  "Machree," 

Floods  when  they  sob,  "Aroon!" 

For  the  Young  Gaels  of  Ireland 

Are  the  lads  that  drive  me  mad; 
For  half  their  words  need  foot-notes, 

And  half  their  rhymes  are  bad. 


16  [231] 


MAVRONE 

(ONE    OF    THOSE    SAD    IRISH    POEMS,    WITH    NOTES) 

FROM  Arranmore  the  weary  miles  I've  come; 

An'  all  the  way  I've  heard 
A  Shrawn1  that's  kep'  me  silent,  speechless,  dumb, 

Not  sayin'  any  word. 

An'    was    it    then    the   Shrawn    of   Eire,2    you'll 
say, 

For  him  that  died  the  death  on  Carrisbool? 
It  was  not  that;    nor  was  it,  by  the  way, 

The  Sons  of  Garnim3  blitherin'  their  drool; 


1A  Shrawn  is  a  pure  Gaelic  noise,  something  like  a  groan, 
more  like  a  shriek,  and  most  like  a  sigh  of  longing. 

2  Eire  was  daughter  of  Carne,  King  of  Connaught.   Her  lover, 
Murdh  of  the  Open  Hand,  was  captured  by  Greatcoat  Mack 
intosh,  King  of  Ulster,  on  the  plain  of  Carrisbool,  and  made 
into  soup.     Eire's  grief  on  this  sad  occasion  has  become  pro 
verbial. 

3  Garnim  was   second  cousin    to   Manannan  MacLir.     His 
sons  were  always  sad  about  something.     There  were  twenty- 
two  of  them,  and  they  were  all  unfortunate  in  love  at  the  same 
time,  just  like  a  chorus  at  the  opera.    "  Blitherin'  their  drool" 
is  about  the  same  as  "dreeing  their  weird." 

[232] 


Nor  was  it  any  Crowdie  of  the  Shee,1 
Or  Itt,  or  Himm,  nor  wail  of  Barryhoo2 

For  Barrywhich  that  stilled  the  tongue  of  me. 
'Twas  but  my  own  heart  cryin5  out  for  you, 
Magraw!3    Bulleen,  Shinnanigan,  Boru, 
Aroon,  Machree,  Aboo!4 

^he  Shee  (or  "Sidhe,"  as  I  should  properly  spell  it  if  you 
were  not  so  ignorant)  were,  as  everybody  knows,  the  regular, 
stand-pat,  organization  fairies  of  Erin.  The  Crowdie  was 
their  annual  convention,  at  which  they  made  melancholy 
sounds.  The  Itt  and  Himm  were  the  irregular,  or  insurgent, 
fairies.  They  never  got  any  offices  or  patronage.  See  Mac- 
Alester,  Polity  of  the  Sidhe  of  West  Meath,  page  985. 

2  The  Barryhoo  is  an  ancient  Celtic  bird  about  the  size  of  a 
Mavis,  with  lavender  eyes   and   a   black-crape  tail.     It  con 
tinually  mourns  its  mate  (Barrywhich,  feminine  form),  which 
has  an  hereditary  predisposition  to  an  early  and  tragic  demise 
and  invariably  dies  first. 

3  Magraw,  a  Gaelic  term  of  endearment,  often  heard  on  the 
baseball  fields  of  Donnybrook. 

4  These  last  six  words  are  all  that  tradition  has  preserved 
of  the  original  incantation  by  means  of  which  Irish  rats  were 
rhymed  to  death.     Thereby  hangs  a  good  Celtic  tale,  which 
I  should  be  glad  to  tell  you  in  this  note;   but  the  publishers  say 
that  being  prosed  to  death  is  as  bad  as  being  rhymed  to  death, 
and  that  the  readers  won't  stand  for  any  more. 


233 


THE  WRATH  OF  THE   POET 

PM  telling  ye  now  of  a  hero  of  story — 

The  Seanachan,  chief  of  the  bards  of  his  time, 

That  harped  before  Guaire  the  King  in  his  glory 
And  proved  to  all  Connaughtthe  Power  of  Rhyme. 

When  all  in  the  palace  was  having  a  gay  time 
The  Seanachan  entered,  the  brisk  little  man; 

"Mille  failthe!"  sez  the  King;  "ye're  as  welcome 

as  Maytime! 
And  what  are  ye  eating?    and  fill  up  yer  can! 

"The  whisky's  forninst  ye,  the  pot's  on  the  bubble; 

And  won't  ye  be  having  a  slice  of  the  leg?" 
"My  thanks,"   sez  the   Bard;  "am  I  giving  ye 
trouble 

To  ask  them  to  boil  me  a  bit  of  an  egg?" 

They  boiled  him  an  egg  and  they  brought  it  to 

table; 
But  while  he  was  tuning  his  harp  for  a  lay, 

[234] 


The  crafty  old  Rats  from  the  cellar  was  able 
To  reach  the  Bard's  dinner  and  roll  it  away! 

And  when  he  preceived  how  them  Rats  had  been 

thieving, 

His  wrath  was  tremendous,  his  anger  was  strong; 
He  knew  that  his  dinner  was  gone  past  retrieving, 
And  hurled  at  the  scamps  all  the  might  of  his 
song. 

He  sang  of  their  wives  and  their  sons  and  rela 
tions; 
He  sneered  at  their  habits,  the  taints  of  their 

blood, 

He  blazoned  the  sins  of  their  past  generations 
And  all  their  great-grandmothers  back  to  the 
Flood. 

Now   mind   ye,  the   words  that  he   used   in   his 

jeering 
Were  those    of  a   Poet  well  taught    and   well 

bred; 

Still,  since  there  is  always  some  ladies  in  hearing 
Tis  best  to  forget  what  he  sang  and  he  said. 

[235] 


But,  ah,  the  poor  Rats!    When  those  wretched 

rapscallions 
Had   felt  the   full   wrath   of  the   Bard   they'd 

defied, 
They  crawled  from  their  crannies  in  troops  and 

battalions, 
And,  lifting  their  pitiful  paws  up,  they  died  I 

So  mark  what  I'm  telling,  ye  saucy  gossoon  ye! 

Don't  anger  a  Poet,  whatever  ye're  at, 
For  fear  he  should  curse  ye,  defame  ye,  lampoon  ye, 

And  rhyme  ye  to  death  like  an  old  Irish  Rat! 


[236] 


THE  NEO-CELTIC  CRITICISM 

WASN'T  ye  there  when  the  Celtic  tragedians 
Played  to  a  houseful  of  Irish  comedians — 
All  of  them  zealous  in  matters  Hibernian, 
Full  of  the  ripest  of  Dublin  Falernian— 
All  of  them  experts,  entitled  to  criticize, 
Laden  with  eggs  to  assist  them  to  witticize? 

Plain  was  the  stage,  and  the  costumes  was  pea 
sant-like; 

All  the  proceedings  was  easy  and  pleasant-like, 
Till,  says  the  Hero  (a  queer  Irish  laddie,  now!), 
"Sure,  an'  I'm  just  after  killin'  me  daddy,  now." 

Up  from  his  seat  jumped  a  critic  meticulous: 
"Bosh!"  says  he  loudly;  "'tis  vile  an'  ridiculous!" 
And,  for  to  prove  that  his  judgment  was  plenary, 
Hove  a  potato  right  into  the  scenery! 
"Yes,"  says  another,  "I  fully  agree  with  ye. 
Erin,  sweet  Erin,  they're  making  too  free  with  ye! 

[237] 


Such  fabrications  are  false  and  felonious; 
Here's  a  tomato  that  brands  them  erroneous!" 
"Sir,"  cried  a  third,  "yer  position's  invincible!" — 
Hurling  an  egg  in  defense  of  the  Principle. 
"Aye,"  chimed  a  fourth,  and  to  clinch  it,  upsetted  a 
Critical  vial  of  pure  asafoetida. 
Then  came  a  shower  of  erudite  reasoning — 
Cabbages,  turnips,  and  pepper  for  seasoning — 
Till,  though  undaunted,  the  Irish  Melpomene 
Saw  all  the  stars  in  the  book  of  astronomy. 

Now  to  the  aid  of  the  criticized  player  folk 
Rushed  the  policemen,  rebutting  the  gayer  folk, 
Out  through  the  lobby  persuasively  booting  them, 
Using  their  clubs  in  the  way  of  confuting  them. 
When  in  discussion  the  Bluecoats  had  bested  them, 
Straightway  those  fine  Irish  critics  arrested  them. 

Scolding  the  culprits,  says  Magistrate  Corrigan, 
"Don't  ye  be  doing  the  like  any  more  again. 
Shut  up  your  mouths !    I  don't  want  any  speech  of  ye; 
Ten  paper  dollars  I'm  asking  from  each  of  ye. 
And,  ye'll  remember,  when  next  ye  are  hating  things, 
Clubs  are  the  old  Irish  means  of  debating  things!" 

[238] 


THE  VILLAIN  PROTESTS 

A  NOVEL  (published  by  Macmillan) 
Is  now  before  you;    I'm  the  Villain. 
For,  though  a  Villain  I  abhor, 
That's  what  my  Author  means  me  for. 

Now,  if  your  intellect's  alert,  you 
Will  know  that  I'm  in  love  with  Virtue; 
Yet,  all  to  help  the  story,  I'm 
Foredoomed  to  Wickedness  and  Crime. 


A  sad  predestination  this 

To  work  for  meed  of  groans  and  hisses, 

To  shuffle,  cozen,  slay  and  rob 

And  fail! — however,  that's  my  job. 

A  Hero  may  be  vain  or  idle 
Or  dissolute  or  homicidal; 
But  he  is  privileged,  and  so 
Emerges  whitewashed,  pure  as  snow. 

[239] 


Then  what  determines  who  in  fiction 
Shall  have  your  praise  or  malediction — 
Yes,  who  shall  be  the  Villain,  who 
The  Hero? — Just  a  Point  of  View! 

Does  anybody  doubt  that  Nero 

In  his  own  story  was  the  hero? 

While  Washington,  I've  somewhere  heard, 

Was  not  revered  by  George  the  Third. 

So,  Gentle  Reader,  judge  me  rightly 
And  see  a  Hero,  brave  and  knightly, 
Resolved  to  foil,  by  hook  or  crook, 
The  Caitiff  Author  of  this  book! 

My  plots  shall  all  be  most  successful; 
I'll  win  the  Heroine  distressful 
(Her  love  is  all  a  body  needs 
To  sanctify  his  darkest  deeds). 

My  adversaries  I'll  belabor; 
And  when  upon  my  flashing  saber 
That  Other  Fellow  I  impale, 
/'//  be  the  Hero  of  this  tale! 
[240] 


OPERA  IN  ENGLISH:    AlDA 


THE  other  night  I  went  with  Vida 
To  hear  the  opera,  "Aid a," 
Which  offers  musical  descriptions 
Of  love  among  the  old  Egyptians. 
Amneris, — (lovely  Madame  Homer, 
A  star,  and  that  is  no  misnomer) — 
A  Princess,  was  exceeding  partial 
To  young  Radames,  brave  and  martial, 
Whose  heart,  alas!  was  palpitating 
About  the  royal  maid-in-waiting 
Aida — (Madame  Emmy  Destinn, 
Who  really  didn't  look  her  best  in 
A  sable  frock  with  golden  borders). 
Radames,  getting  marching  orders, 
Led  forth  to  war  his  gallant  bowmen 
And  soon  returned  with  captive  foemen, 
Among  these  luckless  ones,  a  rather 
Unruly  chief,  Aida's  father! 


(A  king  of  Ethiopia  shepherds 

Arrayed  in  skins  of  spotty  leopards.) 

Radames,  loath  to  treat  severely 

The  kin  of  her  he  loved  so  dearly, 

Implored  the  priests  to  loose  his  chattel. 

Radames  having  won  a  battle, 

The  council  felt  obliged  to  heed  him. 

They  cheered  the  captive  king  and  freed  him. 

The  savage  king  proved  aught  but  grateful; 

He  growled,  "Your  Egypt's  simply  hateful! 

Hist!    Friend  Radames,  take  my  daughter; 

We'll  flee  afar  from  chains  and  slaughter; 

Amid  the  pleasant  desert  places 

Fll  make  you  lord  of  other  races!" 

The  plotters  three  away  were  winging 

When  all  the  others  heard  them  singing 

And  found  their  song  sufficient  reason 

To  cast  them  into  jail  for  treason. 

Now  came  Amneris,  half-demented; 

She  cried,  "Radames,  they've  consented 

To  spare  you  if,  no  more  a  rover, 

You'll  swear  to  throw  Aida  over!" 

Radames  (Signor  E.  Caruso), 

Refusing  stubbornly  to  do  so, 

[242] 


They  buried  him  beneath  the  pavement! 
Ai'da  shared  his  quick  begravement, 
And  so  they  perished, — Heaven  love  them! — 
Amneris  shedding  tears  above  them. 


[2431 


WHAT  THE  EDITOR  WANTS 

MY  dear  Mr.  Inkling: 
We  want  in  a  twinkling 
A  story  just  tinkling 

With  humor  and  zest; 
Not  gloomy  or  fearful 
Or  morbid  or  tearful 
But  pleasant  and  cheerful — 

And  one  of  your  best. 

The  kind  that  we  meet  with 
But  seldom;    a  treat  with 
A  plot  that's  replete  with 

Heart  interest,  you  know; 
Original,  truly; 
And  yet  not  unduly 
Bizarre  or  unruly, 

But  quite  comme  il  faut. 

We  like  brisk  narrations 
With  bright  conversations 
[244] 


And  lively  flirtations 

(That  end  with  a  ring), 
Or  young  politicians 
And  maidens  with  missions 
Who  better  Conditions 
And  that  sort  of  thing. 

We're  fond  of  the  prattle 
Of  punchers  of  cattle; 
We'll  stand  for  the  rattle 

Of  guns,  and  a  deal 
Of  ranch  or  hacienda; 
Or  maybe  you'll  send  a 
Romance  a  la  Zenda 

All  flashing  with  steel. 

We  trust  that  you're  shipping 
A  tale  simply  ripping 
And  virile  and  gripping, 

Yet  nothing  above 
Our  Readers,  nor  slushy 
Nor  mushy  nor  gushy, 
But — oh,  slightly  blushy, 

With  plenty  of  love! 

[245] 


L'ENFOI 
THE  MENTORS 

MY  table  holds  a  book,  well  scored, 

A  simple  gift  my  mother  gave; 
Above  my  couch-head  hangs  a  sword, 

A  sword  that  helped  to  free  the  slave. 

My  shelves  are  bare  of  costly  books, 
My  walls  of  works  that  Art  would  prize, 

But  down  upon  me  ever  looks 
One  pictured  face  with  constant  eyes. 

These  give  me  strength  to  speak  to  men 
What  truth  I  know;  they  cheer  Defeat, 

They  counsel  Doubt;  they  rule  my  pen, 
Three  mentors,  wise  and  strong  and  sweet. 

No  bitter  word  I  dare  to  trace, 

No  craven  thought,  no  phrase  untrue, 

While  Book  and  Sword  and  your  dear  face 
Keep  watch  and  ward  on  all  I  do. 

[246] 


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